


Forever is Composed of Nows

by accioambition



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 51,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioambition/pseuds/accioambition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s troubled: Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven, freshly introduced to society and at the height of her youth, is bored. Family matters and potential suitors worry her, of course, but calling on her friends and having tea with her mother can also be so tedious. But, a random  encounter on a unplanned trip into town changes Emma’s life forever and chance sends her down the path she thought she’d never considered : marriage, by way of motherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to share my Captain Swan Big Bang project with all of you! It’s a Victorian AU that struck me one day while sitting in class and I’m really happy with how it ended up. FICON could not have happened without the help of my beta hookedoncaptswan. Bezi, you took my messy thoughts and fathomed them into something much more coherent and wonderful. And be sure to check out the accompanying beautiful art by somethingalltogether. There are two pieces, one for each part! Jess, thank you so much for all the hard work you put into this project. All the pieces you showed me were absolutely amazing.
> 
> This story will be posted in two parts. Rated T for implied sexual content, brief instances of violence, and mentions of abuse.

_Luck is not chance, it’s toil; fortune’s expensive smile is earned. - Emily Dickinson_

She remembers that day for two reasons - one of them much happier than the other.

In the span of 24 hours, Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven bid farewell to family and childhood.

She greets the morning with excitement and nerves: tonight’s ball may have been the thousandth in a long line of other coming-out season events, but in a few hours, she’s to kneel before Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The _Queen_ of all people is going to approve of her societal debut. It’s an honor only afforded to the best and most trusted of young ladies, the girls whose parents are influential and of high stature, and she is one of them.

But the joy that surrounds her in her bedroom quickly falls to pieces once she comes down to breakfast. Practically skipping into the dining room, Emma is welcomed by a warm smile from her family. Her mother smiles over the top of her teacup; her father looks up from the newspaper and winks at her; and Uncle James glances at her from his stance by the window, head tilted against the pane.

“Good morning, darling,” her father says. The baron folds his papers and sets it beside his empty plate with a smile. Emma returns the gesture as she makes her way over to her mother, pressing her lips to her cheek, and then doing the same with her father and uncle.

“Big day for you, huh, sweetheart?” Uncle James asks. He’s got the same eyes as his brother, identical looks as well, but the personality beneath them couldn’t be more different. As children, James was the troublemaker, usually dragging her father along in whatever mischievous endeavor he’d planned this time. Even when they were teenagers and their father died, forcing David to take up the title of Baron of Misthaven, James continued his bad streak.

In recent years, though, he’s gotten better. Uncle James helps out with the running of the household and often sits in at the House of Lords when her father’s otherwise engaged. David attributes his change in demeanor - much like everyone else’s she’s known her entire life - to her. After Emma was born, James rode closer to the straight and narrow, only so he could properly dote on his niece.

(Still, he’s the brother with the more definite reckless streak. The amount of scoldings Emma and James received together while she was growing up were far too often for a grown man.)

“Yes, Uncle,” Emma dutifully responds. He smiles at her softly, following her from the window and pulling out her chair. “I’m excited, but to be quite honest, I have no idea what to expect.”

“You’ll do wonderfully, Emma,” her mother assures her.

Lance, their butler this is my favorite detail thus far. If I have a butler, I refuse his name to be anything other than Lance, appears at Emma’s side with a platter of fruit for her to choose from. He’s been around Woodlands far longer than anybody else has, inheriting the position from his father when Grandfather was her age. She greets him good morning as she did everyone else in the room: for all intents and purposes, Lance is her elderly uncle, and Emma treats him as such.

The calm of the morning is interrupted suddenly by a knock to the dining room door. WIth a slight bow, Lance leaves her side. On the way out of the room, he sets the food platter down on a sideboard. And then he’s gone.

Her father coughs into his napkin before turning back to the newspaper. “I wonder who that could possibly be at this ungodly hour,” he says nonchalantly.

“Maybe it’s Her Majesty herself,” Uncle James jests. He winks toward Emma, who tries to hide her giggle by eating her breakfast. “She heard our darling Emma was to be presented today and she figured she’d save us the effort of going all the way into town.”

“You’re just hoping to skip to the party tonight, James,” David murmurs. In one of her rare unladylike moments, her mother scoffs into her tea cup. The baron looks up and across the table at his wife. He shrugs. “Everyone here knows that’s true.”

“Of course, brother, but you don’t need to announce it in front of your daughter.”

“It’s quite alright, Uncle James,” Emma says once she’s done chewing. Her fingers come up to hide her lips as she continues, “If it wasn’t the Queen, we all know I’d rather be hunting in the woods.”

Lance reenters the room from the direction of the entrance, his face an interesting melange of confused and concerned. He inclines his head at the baron.

“Sir, the police are in the main hall. They’re asking to speak with-” But the butler is cut off by the sudden appearance of the chief of police. Out of respect for Emma and her mother, he bows, then addresses her standing father.

“I apologize for interrupting your day so early,” the chief says. “We’ve come to take Mr. James Nolan.”

Cocking her head to the side, Mary Margaret asks, “Whatever for?”

The chief turns to directly address the baroness. “Insufficient payment toward gambling debts,” he explains. “According to the accuser, they were to be settled Thursday last.”

“Gambling?” Her father looks betrayed. Emma can imagine him being thrown back into his childhood, when he learned his brother was getting into trouble without him, his partner in crime. “James, is this true?”

James, for what it’s worth, seems stunned speechless. He’s standing at his place at the table, spoon still in hand. Quickly, he’s surrounded by the police, who tug at him from this and that direction.

“Now, hold on,” the baron shouts over the din of the arrest, “surely there must be a mistake!”

“No, David.” James’ voice is strong and foreboding. “It’s my crime and I shall bear the punishment as anyone else would.”

Few and far between are the moments Emma finds herself truly frightened of her father. He’s always been kind and sweet, teaching her about the good things in life and protecting her from the bad. But now, as his brother’s life is taking the downturn they’d always feared it would, David’s eyes alight with fire. He storms up to the chief and, though Emma can’t hear the words being exchanged, she can tell he’s not the baron anymore: he’s the barely-older brother trying to keep his family together.

All the while, Emma sits quietly, not eating and watching events unfold. It’s only when her uncle is being pushed out the door does she forcefully push her chair away and run into her mother’s waiting arms. “Where are they going to take him?” she asks.

Mary Margaret just pulls her daughter closer. “I don’t know, honey,” she mutters into her hair. “I haven’t a clue.”

0000

The rest of the day is tainted: tears are shed from sadness instead of joy. What was supposed to be a happy family affair turns into an enormous effort as Emma attempts not to break down. Ushered up to her room to prepare for festivities by her mother, Emma is but a ghost. All she can think about is that how, while Mary Margaret escorts her to the Queen’s throne, her father and uncle were to be chatting up the other men, sipping scotch or port and milling about a room, waiting for them to appear.

Instead, Emma merely hopes that her father will finish speaking with the police swiftly enough to even make it to the party. Instead, her mother was silent, not giddy as she had been in past, when they were ushered into Buckingham Palace. Instead, Emma is left in the preparation room contemplating the future has in store for her family, surrounded by primping girls in white dresses.

Her nerves are somewhat calmed by the familiar faces around her. None of these girls are truly her friends like Graham is - none of them grew up together, rode horses through the gardens or anything similar to that. But through the circles they ran through or the season circuits, Emma herself has crossed paths with most of these girls. Regina - cunning and cold - stares into the looking glass, assuring her hair falls over her face just so. Ella talks quietly with Aurora, the former making sure the latter’s cheeks are rouged enough. And in the corner, Elsa waves at Emma, her snow blonde hair plaited and decorated with small snowdrops as usual.

Gracefully walking toward her, Elsa smiles politely. The two of them have gotten quite close in their weeks of the season. Emma waves to her and gestures her over. Elsa concedes, her braided blonde hair swaying gently with her movements.

“Are you ready, dearest Emma?” she asks, her slight northern accent tingeing the question as she leans forward to press a kiss to each of Emma’s cheeks in greeting. “The Queen, society, so much to take in all over again.”

Emma mods, for it’s all true, but it’s not what presses on her heart. Taking Elsa’s hand, Emma pulls her friend down until they’re both seated, leaning forward in confidence. She must share the burden she carries, and she’s met no one as quiet and loyal as Elsa.

“I’m going to let you in on a secret and you must promise not to tell a soul.”

Elsa gasps, her hand coming to cover her mouth before answering, “My goodness, Emma, are you already engaged?”

“Wha-no!” Emma says a little too loudly. Belle, another girl Emma’s seen throughout the season, sits nearby and looks up from her book at the exclamation. More quietly Emma whispers, “No, I’m not engaged. My uncle was taken to the workhouse this morning.”

Her friend inhales deeply, stunned. Her face is flushed with sympathy, which bleeds through the rest of her being until her hand lands on Emma’s as a gesture of comfort. “That’s terrible,” Elsa says. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Without hesitation, Emma spills the story to her friend. Much as she has been since Lance announced the arrival of police at breakfast, she can’t help but contemplate what would have happened if the officers had been calling on her father and not her Uncle James.  If her mother and she had to rely on her gambler uncle for comfort and safety, and not her loving and doting father. The thought draws sobs from her chest, and Elsa pats her hand.

“Don’t fret,” she advises her. There's wisdom in her eyes - wisdom Emma knows came in the wake of Elsa’s own tragedies - and it is quietly reassuring. “He’ll work his debt off and be back soon, I’m sure of it. And your father won’t be forced to the same treatment.”

“But what if he is?” Emma asks. She can’t help question her friend’s surety. Though she hasn’t heard much, she does know that the workhouses aren’t somewhere anyone particularly wants to be. The classes converge and are equalled in that world, and while Emma herself isn’t opposed to that, she’s assured that most people of her standing - her father included - aren’t too pleased with the situation. “Nobody knew they were coming for my uncle.”

Elsa shrugs. “At least you’ve come out then,” she reasons. “An advantageous marriage could keep you out of harm’s way.”

That’s another thought that’s crossed her mind in the last hours. Though she’s reluctant to consider it, a marriage - linking herself legally and biblically to a man of good repute - would give her better insurance. The only men in her life thus far have been her father, her best friend from childhood Graham, the future Baron of Fulham, and the handful of male servants at Woodlands over the years.

But adding another permanent fixture, a _husband_ , just wasn't something she wanted at this time in her life. Queen Victoria had survived and thrived after the tragic death of the late Prince Consort: why couldn't she?

The matron arrives with the mother figures in tow and Emma has to end her conversation with Elsa with a single nod. Later, they can go into detail or talk of other options.

(Emma’s all too aware of Elsa’s persuasion on the topic of marriage. It could very likely become heated, not the sort of conversation for the current setting.)

Her mother finds her among the crowd of white dresses, followed shortly by Elsa’s aunt, Lady Ingrid Fisher.

Threading her arm through Emma’s, Mary Margaret excitedly mutters, “Are you ready, darling?”

Emma knows her mother is trying to keep strength and composure for the public’s eye. There’s a waver only she can hear in her voice that betrays the confusion and scandal that could surround their family in a matter of loose words and well-placed house calls. But Emma follows her mother’s lead, putting on a strong facade and nodding. It’s yet to lead her astray.

Mary Margaret pats her arm. “That’s my girl,” she murmurs. “Your father and I are so proud of you.”

As soon as Elsa and her aunt are out of earshot, being ushered to the lengthening line of girls waiting their turn to be presented to the Queen, Emma leans toward her mother’s ear. “Will Father be here?” she asks quietly.

Her response is a shrug. “I’ve received no word from him or anyone else since we arrived.”

Emma sighs, sending a shiver down her spine. She figures that would be the case, but it never hurt to hope otherwise. “This day is not turning out as I once dreamed it would,” she says, joining the end of the line.

“I imagine not, dear.”

0000

Days and weeks later, Emma still reels from the day that culminated in her brief encounter with Queen Victoria. She came off as a nice elderly lady who’d lived a life far more strained and difficult than Emma ever thought hers would be. Dressed in mourning clothes as she had been known to wear since her dear husband’s death only a few years ago, Her Majesty had merely nodded at Emma. Such a small gesture, and it was one of the most sought after actions in the entire empire.

 

How peculiar.

 

Her mother, however, held a brief conversation with the Queen, over something trivial, Mary Margaret assured her daughter once they were dismissed from Her Majesty’s presence.

 

“Just small comments on society,” she had mumbled, leading Emma to the party awaiting them by following the women in front of them. “She claimed to remember me from my coming out.”

 

“Really? Do you think she actually meant it?”

 

Her mother had shaken her head. “I’m inclined to believe whatever our lovely monarch says, darling.” The volume around them increased as they walked into the ballroom, but Mary Margaret couldn’t go without one final sentiment. “Wait until you have your own daughter. With good grace, you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

 

The Queen’s approval is the only bright spot among many a dark day in the following weeks. Her father had barely made it to the celebration afterwards, and Emma had hardly seen him since. With the power of the aristocracy she’d been raised in rapidly falling, the baron was having an even tougher time than Emma would have expected finding any information on his brother. He was working every angle - calling on those in and out of the House of Lords who might have the slightest clue - and kept coming up empty.

 

“No one has an idea of which workhouse James might be in,” her father says on one of the few occasions he’s at Woodlands for a meal. The dining table seems empty without Uncle James. Customarily, he sat across from Emma, making faces and stretching his legs beneath the table to tap at her ankle when she was younger. It always brought a smile to her face.

 

But now it’s Mother at one end, Father at the head, and Emma awkwardly alone between the two, only the scrapes of silverware against her plate to possibly entertain her during meals.

 

“You’ll find some clue of his whereabouts soon, darling,” her mother assures him from her seat, cutting at her piece of lamb. “You’ve been looking long and hard. The word’s gotten out to enough people. Somebody will find out something soon enough.”

 

After swallowing a bite, David nods his head slowly. “I suppose,” he concedes. Emma catches a pensive expression of concern cross his face before he shakes the cobwebs being spun in his head. Her father looks at her, a smile on his lips.

 

(It’s fake, for her benefit, she knows. He looks pained, his lips stretched taught from cheek to cheek instead of the effortless toothy grin he wore when she shot her first kill or when she curled into his embrace after her coming out. Her father is not at all pleased with how his search is turning out.)

 

“And how was your day, darling?” he asks. Then, jokingly, “How did the long line of suitors fare?”

 

“Papa, stop.” Still, Emma chuckles. Even when he’s in a dark place, her father’s always put her first and managed to make her smile.

 

0000

 

Emma wakes up the next morning with a groan. She hadn’t gotten much sleep - the Sandman had been elusive and bitter as of late - and was not looking forward to the day ahead. If her memory served, some of her parents’ acquaintances would be arriving today for an extended stay. That meant tea, entertaining, supper, dinner, and all the other endeavors that followed suit.

 

To say that Emma wasn’t in the mood for such formalities would be the understatement. She flops her head back into her pillow, shakes it about, and then begrudgingly sat up to prepare for the day. Her mother has yet to show her the dress she intends her daughter to wear to the dinner tonight, so for now, a simple day dress covers her instead of her bedclothes.

 

Plopping down in front of the vanity, Emma sighs heavily. She hates having to pin her hair up like this every morning. Her blonde locks are too long and too heavy and often fall free soon after breakfast - wisps framing the rises of her facial features. The pins scrape her skull. The tightness of the bun her mother insists she have pulled at her skin, rendering her sick with headaches. How she misses the days of her childhood where her mother or maid brushed through her hair and that was the only amount of coiffure she had to subject herself to.

 

Now, since her debut a few months back, she has to maintain heavy dresses and maquillage and tightly-kept curls. Emma’s focus has to be on finding herself a nice enough husband - a man to keep her safe in shelter and body and to gather her future children, - and this is society's proven method of success.

 

With a sigh, Emma resignedly glares at herself in the looking glass. It’s been a burden to get used to - putting her hair up instead of letting it blow with the breeze on her horse or whatever she may do - but this is her life, now until the day she finally leaves this earth. Her hair up, her lips spread in a smile, and her perception the image of perfection: nothing less would do.

 

(How monotonous, she thinks.)

 

The slight knock of Ms. Gibbs breaks her from her reverie. Emma sighs, curls one awry strand of hair behind her ear, and stands up. “I’ll be down in a second,” she says loud enough to be heard through the thick wood.

 

“Right-oh, milady,” Emma hears from the hallway. “Your breakfast will be down in the kitchens with the cook.”

 

That catches her attention. Quickly and hardly dressed properly, Emma scurries to the door and pull sit open just in time to catch the working woman walk down the hall. “Ms. Gibbs!” she yells. The servant turns around and sends Emma a slight curtsy. “Where are my parents? Why aren’t they down having breakfast?”

 

“Well, dear, your father’s in his study looking over some finances, I believe,” Ms. Gibbs informs her, “and your mother went to call on one of your godfathers before the guests begin to arrive.”

 

Emma can feel the expression on her face fall. Alone again, it seems. “Thank you, Ms. Gibbs,” she shouts down the hall. “I’ll be down shortly.”

 

Ms. Gibbs nods and sets down the servants’ stairwell, heading to the kitchen. She’ll be sure to warn the rest of the employees of their impending informal inspection before Emma even leaves her room, which she does soon after speaking with the maid. There’s not much left for her to do in order to be ready for the day.

 

Tiptoeing down the stairs in order not to frighten everyone away from their work, Emma quietly arrives in the kitchen. It’s not as if she hasn’t been in the room before: she’s just never been in here when it’s alive like it is now. She and her father have snuck down in the dark to indulge their sweet teeth and, as a child, Emma was down here much more often to run around Lance’ office or bother the cook into making her a snack.

 

In the middle of the morning, however, it’s busier than she’s ever seen it. Lance walks by her with a nod on the way to his office. A footman and delivery boy exchange heated words at the back door, propped open to reveal a cart. From the corner of her eye, Emma sees the cook wave her over and point at the plate and stool set up for her.

 

Munching on a roll, Emma sits and watches the servants work around her. They’re all like clockwork: the cook flitting to and fro with her spoons and ingredients, a maid nearby sewing some garment, the footman filing invoices from this morning’s deliveries.

 

“Have you any plans today, milady?” Ms. Gibbs asks from her stance near the sink. She’s drying plates much slower than the kitchen maid washes them, but that’s the woman’s way. Along with Lance, Ms. Gibbs was the only other servant who’d served Woodlands as long as Emma could recall. She knew the ins and outs of the household, and thus knew how empty her former charge’s schedule.

 

After swallowing a bite and around her fingers, Emma answers, “Not at all. I thought I might call on Graham and those over at Wolverton Estates, but I’m afraid they won’t be home.”

 

Ms Gibbs nods in understanding. “Would you like to go into town?” she offers. “Some of the maids and I plan to go after morning chores are finished and before tea.”

 

Emma shrugs. “I suppose. I’ve nothing else to do.”

 

Drying her hands on her smock, Ms. Gibbs puts her last contribution to the dry dishes on in the cupboard. She approaches Emma’s side and, like her mother often did, places a gentle hand on her upper arm.

 

“You need to find a hobby, my dear,” the woman says. “Something ladylike to occupy your time.”

 

Emma’s shoulders slump in defeat. “You mean to say I can’t spend my days hunting or riding.”

 

A sad, sorry smile spreads across Ms. Gibbs’ lips. “I know how you adore those activities,” she says apologetically, “but they just aren’t suitable for lady.” Emma nods, understanding that what the maid said is true. She can’t very well go cavorting around in the forests, no matter how much she enjoys it.

 

But, despite the harsh reality, Ms. Gibbs does present another option: “Have you thought about volunteering in town? Perhaps an orphanage or convent could use a helping hand.”

 

The first thing that came to mind at the suggestion was company. With her mother running the household almost single handedly and her father either sitting in Parliament or working to find out information on his brother, Emma's relied on her few friends to entertain her, as that was what she thought a lady did. But it was mind numbingly dull more often than not. The small talk, the forced smiles - it bored Emma to tears.

 

A cause, though, some sort of charity endeavor: that could be the answer. She did have a lot of free time now. Her education came to a resounding end with the season, so she had no more lessons to struggle through. Emma had the time and means to travel into the city, at least a couple days during the week, to get off the property and find people - actual people - of whom she might be of use to.

 

Emma grins wide. “That sounds like a splendid idea, Ms. Gibbs.” To affirm her thought, she presses a kind kiss to each of the woman’s cheeks. “I’d love to go into town with you this afternoon. Perhaps I’ll find my cause there.”

 

0000

 

Walking down the streets of the city never bored Emma. There are certain aspects of far country life she was jealous of: the echoing solitude, the surrounding nature, the endless beauty. On certain days, Emma wishes she wasn’t raised just outside of London. But the days she’s allowed to amble from storefront to storefront are what make it worth it.

 

Emma follows Ms. Gibbs around on her errands like an errant puppy. She takes in the sights as they come: a city woman corralling her scramble of children, vendors shouting out their various deals, businessmen conducting short deals on the sidewalks outside of coffeehouses.

 

“Perhaps you _could_ find yourself a purpose here,” Ms. Gibbs mentions as they pass by the orphanage. The basket hanging off her arms is filled with spools of thread and folds of fabric for a dress her mother wants. “Making the meals or watching the children in the yard.”

 

Nodding politely, Emma hums. “Perhaps.”

 

But she can feel her heart’s not interested in the idea. There’s something about children - they might be in her future - she hopes they’re in her future - but the notion of being around them now, in such a disparaging situation - she can’t stand it. It makes her too sad.

 

Late morning and early afternoon progress with more smiles and happiness than Emma expected. A peek into the life of the lower class always reminds her how fortunate she’s been in her life, but the people she runs into who know Ms. Gibbs are nothing if not some of the kindest she’s ever met. One woman even asks that they walk a certain way back to Woodlands to check on her husband, and that Ms. Gibbs write her a letter on his condition later.

 

It’s on this backway home they come across a dark, foreboding building. The exterior is a shade darker than the customary grey of the sky. Towering stacks emit smoke, further dirtying the sky, and small windows line the wall beneath the eaves. It’s a threatening building that makes Emma’s heart drop, and all she can think of is how much she wants to be far away from it.

 

Yet Ms. Gibbs walks toward it.

 

“Ms. Gibbs!” Emma calls after her maid, who’s a few paces in front of her, heading toward a solid black door. “Ms. Gibbs, where are you going?”

 

“Maisie asked me to leave word for her husband,” she says simply. “You were there for the conversation, milady.”

 

With a mumbled “Right, right of course,” Emma dutifully follows her maid past the threatening door and into the darkest room she’d ever walked into. The darkness is almost its own entity, sucking up the light from outside until the moment the door slams shut. Emma’s vision takes so long to grow accustom to the lack of light, the only thing she sees of the interior of the building is a small windowed partition as Ms. Gibbs is walking away from it.

 

“Come now, milady,” she murmurs, intent on getting back into the waning sunlight. “Don’t dawdle about.”

 

Emma stops her with a hand to her arm. “Where exactly are we, Ms. Gibbs?”

 

“The workhouse,” she says, quiet and simple. “’s where the debtors and such characters come to pay their dues.”

 

“Might Uncle James be here?”

 

Still unable to really see in front of her, Emma senses more than sees Ms. Gibbs shake head. “I should think not. I overheard your father saying he was sent to the one in Middlesex.”

 

Instead of following her maid’s urging out of the building, Emma approaches the window herself.

 

(She’s got an idea. Or a question, at least. And her parents do everything, have done everything, to make and keep her happy. The least she can do is follow a lead when one blinds her on the journey home.)

 

Behind the window is a scrawny little man, standing. In the light, he’s sure to be pale in the deadliest sense, more of a skeleton than a living being. She asks, “Who runs this workhouse?”

 

With a shrug, the man at window replies, “The foreman, miss,” like it’s the most obvious answer in the universe.

 

“Might I meet with him?”

 

Her request catches him off guard. “Now?” he asks.

 

Emma nods, much too enthusiastically for the current setting. “If at all possible.”

 

From in front of the window, Emma can tells the man is nervous. His upper body moves about, meaning he’s shuffling his feet out of sight. He looks over his shoulder as if looking for a higher-up to take over her hardly-difficult line of questioning. “I think not, miss,” he finally responds. “Perhaps you can come back in a few days’ time. The foreman tends not to be busy on Thursdays.”

 

“Excellent.” It’s not exactly what she was hoping for, but it will do. Plus, it hits two birds with one stone: she’ll hopefully get further insight into her uncle’s internment _and_ she has a reason to come to the city.“Tell your foreman Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven will meet with him at 10 in the morning this Thursday.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Emma nods gratefully. “Thank you, sir. Have a lovely evening.” Although as she’s walking away from the window and the man behind it, the bottoms of her skirts brushing up against something hard and wet as she goes, she isn’t at all sure if a lovely anything is possible.

 

As they exit the workhouse, Ms. Gibbs wraps her arm around Emma’s. Once they’re far away and on their way home, the maid asks Emma what that commotion was about.

 

“I think I might have just found my purpose, Ms. Gibbs,” she says happily. “Or at least a purpose.”

 

0000

 

“I’m sorry the foreman himself couldn’t meet with you today,” the man - Mr. Robin Locksley, who introduces himself as the chargehand, the head guardian’s second-in-command, when Emma arrives at her appointment a few days later - says, “but there was a bit of trouble in the men’s corridor last night.”

 

“What was the problem, if you don’t mind me asking?” Emma inquires to continue the polite flow in conversation.

 

Mr. Locksley glances back at her and shakes his head. “It’s not the most appropriate situation for a good lady’s ears,” he explains.

 

“This also isn’t the most appropriate location for a lady to be, and yet here I am,” Emma counters.

 

The guardian chuckles, pushing a door open using his shoulder and holding it until she passes through. “A most certain fact, Your Ladyship.”

 

“Please, Mr. Locksley, call me Emma.”

 

“Then I insist you call me Robin in return.”

 

An easy enough agreement. Emma continues to follow him through the winding dark halls.

 

When the thought of visiting the workhouses came to her mind, she wasn’t really sure what to expect. She’d kept her eye on workhouses in the newspaper ever since her father told her about Uncle James’s fate, but the stories never really went into detail about what happened behind the brick walls. Robin met her outside the building and allowed her entrance through what had to be a backdoor. The corridors they’ve walked through so far are empty and clean, something nonsensical for a building with so many people in it.

 

And the people: there are supposed to be hundreds of men, women, and children within these walls and the only one _she’s_ seen is Robin. She doesn’t exactly have an idea of what she wants to do in terms of volunteering with this workhouse, but her initial thought was to help the women in their work or perhaps teach the children their lessons. Whatever she was to do, she expected _people_ to be part of her charity work.

 

Robin finally leads her to a door at the end of a hallway, still void of any other beings. He ushers her into what ends up being an office - the foreman’s office, if she were to guess. In a stark contrast to the dullness of the rest of the place, the office is richly decorated and light. The furniture is a dark wood, calming and familiar, a shade or two light than the furniture in her father’s study. Two windows allow bright sunlight in, warming and illuminating the room. It’s a rare nice day in town: the clouds parted after weeks of rain and gloom.

 

(This foreman is smart enough to know that natural light costs much less and makes even dreary places like this a little bit nicer.)

 

But the books - easily four hundred books line the shelves opposite the windows. Some familiar names immediately catch Emma’s eyes - Shakespeare, Darwin, Austen - but the subject matter ranges from genealogical histories to newest popular novels, manuals on factory machines to what look to be journals or diaries.

 

(It’s nothing, really, compared to the library at home, but it’s quite an impressive collection for a workhouse foreman’s office.)

 

Easing into the seat behind the desk, Robin gestures to one of the two chairs opposite him. “Please, take a seat Emma, and we can discuss what you wish to do.”

 

“It isn’t so much what I wish to do, per se,” she corrects him. “I was hoping your foreman - or rather you, in this case - might be able to tell me whether a specific person is in this workhouse.”

 

Robin’s eyebrows raise and he sucks in a breath between his teeth. “I’m afraid I don’t have access to that sort of information,” he tells her. “I haven’t the slightest clue whether the foreman does either. The folks who wrote the laws and conditions for these places were quite thorough with who could know what about the people in here.”

 

“Oh.” One step forward and two steps back.

 

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Robin apologizes unnecessarily. “I wish I could be of more assistance. Though, I will tell you, you are the first lady to come in person looking for a loved one. Everyone else sends by post.”

 

Chuckling away her emotions, Emma says, “Well, I’m glad to have made an impression.”

 

So she can’t really help her parents or her uncle. Not right now. But that doesn’t mean she couldn't keep trying.

 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to carry on that discussion about what I could do to help in the workhouse.” She sends the guardian a bright smile.

 

They spend the next hour or two discussing what Emma could do in terms of volunteering, helping out the less fortunate people forced to pay their debts through manual labor. Robin keeps suggesting that “perhaps a donation would be best idea, so that those in the workhouse can be fed,” but Emma insists otherwise.

 

“Robin, really, if I’m forced to be idle for another day, I will lose my mind.”

 

The man leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His smile is kind, but almost reproving. “Your Ladyship, while I respect your ambition and drive, I must disagree with you. I do believe that, for your safety, it would be best for you to donate coin rather than time to this establishment.” His expression softens, turning much more genuine, and his shoulders lose the rigidity propreity forces on him. “I have a wife and son and I don’t ever wish them to visit me here. I fear for their safety and well-being. This is not a place for the more delicate sex.” Though, under his breath, he added, “Not that she would accept that answer forthright.”

 

Emma gives him a single nod. “I understand that.” But sternly and strongly, she says, “I wish to volunteer here. I understand the risks involved, but that does not dissuade me.”

 

Relaxing and sliding back into the chair, Robin nods. “Very well then. I’ll be sure to advise the foreman of this conversation.”

 

With a relieved sigh, Emma finally grins. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Locksley.” She stands from the chair and offers her hand, which he obligingly takes in his. “If you point me in the direction of the exit, I will bid you a good day and you can get back to what I’m sure is a very busy day.”

 

“Nonsense,” Robin says, standing himself and moving toward the door. “I’ll walk you out. Just stay with me: we don’t want you to lose your way.”

 

The darkness of the workhouse corridors quickly swallow them both up. In contrast with light from the windows, Emma briefly entertains the severity of the agreement she’s just entered into. She’s promised to come here more than once weekly, pending the foreman’s concurrence. She’s _willingly_ coming to this shadowy place on her own accord - the one location in all of town that people avoid as if it’s rampant with a plague.

 

It’s quite the glowing recommendation, she thinks, but it proves how weary she’s grown of spending hours daintily in the sitting room sewing with her mother.

 

It’s as she’s taking her painstakingly long path back to the outdoors – to the courtyard, the street, the alley, anywhere with the sun’s rays, for goodness sake – that she finds _him._ Wide brown eyes, unkempt hair that would shine in the sunlight – they stab her right in the heart through the glass separating the corridor from the work room.

The boy’s among a slew of other children, all ripped from their families prematurely, but none have the look of complete and utter downtrodden despair behind their eyes. He seems to have had hope, more than Emma though possible in any child his age, but it’s faded. _Is_ fading.

She can’t help herself: against Robin’s requests, she purposely loses track of the guardian and quickly enters the children’s sector. Many of them don’t even look up from their work. The ones that do stare at her and follow her movements.

Within seconds, she’s kneeling down next to the little boy who caught her eye. Her hand gently falls to his back, drawing his attention from the little scrap of fabric in front of him.

“What’s your name, lad?” Emma asks quietly. He shakes his head vehemently and returns to his work. “Oh, darling, don’t worry, you haven’t done anything wrong. I want to help you.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Emma. What’s your name?”

There’s an awkward moment where her hand just hangs between them and the boy focuses intently on the cloth in front of him. But Emma sees his resolve flounder – the frequent glances in her direction, the gradual slowing of his fingers. Finally, the child wraps his fingers around hers.

“I’m Henry,” he mutters, weakly shaking her proffered hand. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

Emma smiles. “The pleasure is all mine, Henry.” The boy swiftly returns to his task, but frequent glances in her direction prompt her to continue the conversation. “Is your family here with you?” He shakes his head. “Are you an orphan, Henry?”

The image of Henry nodding his head is the saddest thing she’s seen in her life. The boy can’t be more than seven years old and already he’s alone.

And yet he hasn’t given in. He’s survived to this point in his life and, if Emma were to guess, will continue to do so.

But if he doesn’t know the world outside the workhouse, how is he supposed to _live_?

“Henry,” Emma says softly. “Henry, I’m going to try and get you out of here.”

His entire countenance lightens at her words. “Do you promise? Because Charles was talking about things his mama used to say at bedtime, with a prince and princesses and dragons. And I told him, ‘Charles, there’s only one prince, and that’s not the story of him.’”

 _Bedtime stories and fairytales_. Henry’s never heard a proper bedtime story, and the sole thought of that breaks Emma’s heart even further. She gives him a small, sad smile and scratches the boy’s scalp beneath his shaggy hair. “I promise, Henry. I will do everything in my power to get you out of here.”

 

0000

 

Her endeavor at goodwill and saving Henry from the workhouse is immediately halted.

 

“No,” her father says sternly. “Not in my house.”

 

“But Papa, you haven’t seen him. You haven’t seen what it’s like in th-”

 

“I don’t need to to know you’re not prepared to take care of a child.” He’s seated at his office desk, not even looking up from his correspondence. “You’ve just come out this season; you aren’t married and you don’t even have a suitor.” His voice is stern, but knowing him as she does, Emma can detect the hint of concern that tinges her father’s words. “If you take in this boy, you risk the chance of being mistaken for an unwed mother and be put in the workhouse. You wouldn’t want to save this child only for both of you to end up there again, would you?” he asks. Her father sighs, his shoulders slumping into the desktop. “Emma, my favorite daughter, now is just not the proper time.”

 

But his words spark an idea in her mind. “So if I were to marry, would you consider taking Henry in?”

 

Sighing again, her father finally glances up at her. “That wouldn’t be my decision,” he says. Standing from his chair, David comes around his desk and leans against the edge of it. “Emma, you are my shining light. You have brought your mother and I so much happiness. With everything our family has been through, you have been a blessing. I am so proud of you, my little girl.” He pauses, as if he’s picking out precisely the correct words to communicate his meaning. “But you are enough. We’re much too old to be caring for a child.”

 

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says simply.

 

“If you want to take in this little boy, this Henry,” her father begins, “then that should be something you and your husband discuss. You, after all, will be the ones caring for him. Loving him and raising him to be the man you want him to be.” Tilting his head toward his shoulder, David reminds her, “It’s a lot of work, Emma. Parenting is the most arduous occupation out there.”

 

Emma scoffs, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest and slumping down into her chair. “You and Mother were lucky to have me then, weren’t you?”

 

Her father sends her a leery side eye. “Now, now, let’s not get too cocky, Emma,” he chides her. “You weren’t always the delight you are today, and you and I both know that.” Emma gaps and David laughs. “You probably can’t recall the number of tantrums you threw when I wouldn’t let you come riding with me, or during hunting season.” His eyes glaze over a bit, living in the past for a moment. “My Emma, always up for an adventure,” he sighs affectionately.

 

He crosses his arms as well, an upright mirror of his pouting daughter. His expression grows serious as he looks down at her. “If you’re serious about getting this boy out of the workhouse, then your mother and I can find you some respectable suitors to speed up the process. Otherwise, you’ve got to set out on your own adventure.”

 

Her shoulders sagging a bit, Emma stands. “Okay,” she says slowly. “But you’ll help me right?”

 

“Of course, darling,” David assures her. “You’ll always be my little girl. I’ll help you through hell and high water.” His arms go wide in expectation of an embrace. Acting reluctant, Emma shuffles closer to her father until she can easily wrap her arms around his waist.

 

They stand like that, Emma’s head against her father’s shoulder, just breathing and enjoying what little time they had to spend together, until David asks a question. “What d’you think about Graham? He seems like a proper suitor, a gentleman worthy of my daughter’s affections.”

 

Her jaw drops. Physically, she can feel the coarse fabric of her father’s waistcoat brush against the tip of her chin. Emma draws back to stare at him. “Papa, you can’t be serious,” she says. When David doesn’t respond, she steps out of his arms. “Graham? You believe that I want to marry Graham?”

 

David shrugs. “His father and I could set it up quite nicely. You two were raised together and are quite close already.” He shrugs again. “It just seems like the easiest answer to your predicament.”

 

“Papa,” Emma starts, but she stops. It does make sense: the quicker she marries, the quicker she can get Henry out of the workhouse. Marrying Graham would be the logical answer. He knows her better than anyone, save for her parents and maybe Elsa. She’s sure she could tell him about her situation - of Henry and her adoration of this little boy - and he would jump at the chance to help her. They could be happy. A marriage between her and Graham could work.

 

But it really wouldn’t.

 

Emma sighs. “I want what you and Mother have, Papa,” she tells him. “You love each other to the ends of the earth and far beyond it.” Taking a seat once more, Emma looks down at her interlaced hands. “I want to embark on this adventure, but I want to do it with someone I love as fully as you love Mama.”

 

David shrugs. “It was merely a suggestion, darling,” he states, taking his time and walking back behind his desk. As he sits down, he suggests, “It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

 

And so she does. The following morning, she sends word over to Wolverton Estates, inviting Graham over for tea. Shortly after noon, he arrives, greeting Lance with a pat on the shoulder and giving Emma the deepest bow she believes a man has ever bequeathed to her.

 

“Lady Emma Nolan, future Baroness of Misthaven, the eye of all Woodlands,” he airly tells the ground. He straightens, pushing his hair back from his face. “My, are you a sight.”

 

“Hello to you too, Graham,” she says with a smile. Graham offers his arm to escort her to the sitting room, and Emma addresses Lance as she takes it: “We’ll have tea, up here, Lance, whenever it’s ready.”

 

And it’s easy: her friendship with Graham, as it’s always been, is easy. Little thought goes into her actions or words. She teases him and he willingly takes it, throws a reciprocal jab back every once in awhile to remind her what he’s capable of, but holds back because he was raised a gentleman just as she was raised a lady.

 

She tells him about the lead she thought she’d found about Uncle James. She tells him about Henry, having to pause in the middle of the story for Lance to serve them tea. Which nicely leads into her father’s proposition, but doesn’t make it any less awkward to ask.

 

“So my father suggested that I…” Emma pauses and gulps, her hands shaking around her teacup. “My father suggested we marry.”

 

Graham slaps his hand against his broad chest, bending at the waist with laughter. “Truly? Your father think we should wed?” His laughter rang out again, and he gasped for breath. “Do they not realize both our families are deep in debt?”

 

Emma smiles at her childhood friend.

 

(Dire situation aside, it is indeed an amusing endeavor. As young children, they splashed about in fountains, both at on his and her parents’ estates, naked as babes. Graham fought the stable boys for her honor. Emma heralded his good heart for the maids. It was a friendship between little ones at its most basic level.)

 

Once he settles himself, Graham looks up at her.  He takes her hand between both his before promising, “Dear Emma, if no other poor sod comes along to whisk you away from this tragic place, then I suppose I would be happy to spend the rest of my days making your life all the more difficult.”

 

“Goodness, don’t try and sell such a proposal,” she grumbles, through the complaint is lighthearted.

 

His smile is familiar and welcoming. “You know I wish to please you as I can, but Emma,” his large hand takes Emma’s in his, “darling Emma, my closest and most dearest friend, you and I both know there is much more adventure for me out there.”

 

She sighs. Graham’s got a valid point and she hates it when that happens.

 

“There is talk of safaris and explorers abroad, in Africa and India and the colonies of the Orient.” Dropping his hands to his sides, Graham’s eyes glaze over with a dreamy look. “Emma, I intend to go. I intend to be one of those explorers and have adventures.”

 

It shouldn’t be such news - she often overhears talks of so-and-son’s son and this-and-that’s husband leaving to pursue broader horizons - but hearing the sentiment from the closest thing she has to a brother is stunning.

 

“But what about your parents?” she asks incredulously. “What about getting married and having children and–”

 

“And I want all that,” he interrupts her, “just not at this moment.” Exhaling loudly, Graham runs his hand through his hair, letting it drag down his face until he’s scratching thoughtfully at the hair on his chin. “You are a girl, Emma.” She gives him a rueful side-eye and he corrects himself. “A woman. You have duties and expectations upon you.”

 

“And you haven’t?” she says with a scoff. “You’re to carry on your family’s name, your family’s bloodline and business.”

 

Graham laughs again. “I will, but times are changing, sweet Emma. You and I both know that.” He gestures in what Emma knows is the vague direction of the ocean. “People take steamships around the empire. In a matter of weeks, I could be in Delhi or Boston.” His brown eyes meet hers. “I will come home and fulfill my promise to marry you, but only after we live a little.”

 

Emma groans. “Graham, I can’t wait that long. Henry needs me.”

 

A sympathetic smile flits across her friend’s lips. “And that will be your adventure,” Graham tells her calmly and sweetly. “And seeing the world will be mine.” His fingers curl around hers and squeeze in a friendly manner.

 

The gesture is kind and it makes Emma grin weakly. He’s supported her through all her crazy and questionable decisions through the years: it’s only fair she do the same courtesy for him. “So I guess this is you refusing my proposal?”

 

With a chuckle, Graham lets go of her hand. He takes a step back and bows. “Lady Emma of Misthaven, while greatly honored, I respectfully decline your offer of marriage.” Straightening his spine, her friend smiles. “For now. Should you ask again in due time, my answer is sure to change.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes good-heartedly.

 

(There goes her first and best suitor.)

 

0000

 

Her parents’ next potential suitor is a man named Walsh. A kind enough man, Walsh is an artisan and so makes his own money, which endeared him to her parents as a potential son-in-law. He builds and designs furniture and woodworking creations, nice little handcrafted trinkets.

 

(On their first supervised outing, Walsh pulls a little horse from his pocket and gifts it to her.

 

“Made of Scottish beech from the highlands,” he explains with a shrug. “Your father mentioned you liked to ride as a child.”

 

And while it was a pleasant thought, it seems rather...trite.

 

“I did enjoy riding as a girl,” she concedes, “but even then, I would’ve much rather have spent a day in the woods practicing archery with my mother.”

 

(Emma was oddly satisfied with the nervous gulp she caught go down his throat.)

 

It’s going well enough from her perspective - sure, she doesn’t feel the love that she’s been surrounded by her entire life, or even a fraction of what she feels for Graham. The bond between her parents isn’t mirrored in her relationship with Walsh. But she never expected that, never really wanted that.

 

(Lies.)

 

But then he slips up in conversation at dinner one night. Their parents were discussing courtship and wedding, dowry and title. As taught, Emma sits silently, nodding when appropriate and poking at the third plate of food Lance has placed in front of her tonight.

 

(She’s usually full halfway through the second, but her mother being the socialite she is, company deserves no less than four courses for any meal.)

 

Her father speaks something of dowry, a joke between the men at the table and how it should be discussed in the study after the meal, when Walsh untactfully mentions how it “can be no less than my offer from the Mills; their daughter is far more interesting and much more open to my desires.”

 

Her parents need not even look at Emma to know their daughter is fuming and the courtship ends before officially beginning.

 

(His parents are not pleased in the least.)

 

“It’s for the best,” Emma tells her mother the next day as they walk through town. “I didn’t even tell him about Henry.”

 

Mary Margaret doesn’t speak a word for a while. They walk a couple blocks before she opens her mouth and closes it again. Emma rolls her eyes: her mother does this too often. She’ll have an idea, a solution to whatever the problem at hand is, but stop herself from sharing it. Unsure of whether the quirk comes as ingrained habit or learned action, Emma’s become accustomed to sighing regardless when it happens

 

“What is it, Mother?” she asks with exasperation.

 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Mary Margaret says reluctantly. “Maybe this is a divine sign meant to dissuade you from adopting that little boy.”

 

Emma physically stops in the middle of the walkway, causing the few people strolling behind her to hazard around her with grumbles under their breath. Her jaw drops and she looks to her mother. “You mean to say that there’s something ungodly and wrong about wanting to give an orphaned child a home and someone to love them? Do you mean to say that I’d be better off finding a husband only for myself and not for myself and Henry?”

 

“Now Emma, you know that’s not what I mean.” Her mother takes a grip on her elbow and drags her into motion, guiding her into the opening of an alley between the haberdashery and a cafe. Voice hushed, Mary Margaret explains. “What I mean is not many men are prepared to take on marriage, let alone fatherhood. Maybe if you postponed this endeavor over the little workhouse boy, then you could find a proper - ”

 

“Mother, please,” Emma mutters, “my future husband is going to be a father eventually.” Checking the sidewalk on the other side of the brick wall, Emma eases herself into the crowd of Londontown, her mother hot on her heels. Casually, Emma says, “I’m only helping the cause.”

 

Sighing, her mother threads her arm through the crease in Emma’s elbow. “If you’re sure. I merely mean to remind you that some unmarried men see children as a burden.”

 

“And if the suitor is truly meant to be my husband, then he will love and accept the boy with as much fervor as I have.”

 

That love she wants - the one that has her father looking starry-eyed at her mother, the feeling that consumed her when she first saw Henry on the other side of the workhouse glass - she feels it deep in her gut the first time she’s introduced to one Neal Cassidy.

 

Son of a London merchant, Mr. Cassidy enters her life in a swooping fashion: a few weeks after her streetside discussion with her mother, Emma once again finds herself in the city, strolling through the streets with Elsa at her side. Out of nowhere, a rogue carriage comes barreling toward them, a wheel wiggling loose of its mooring. Too caught up in conversation and facing away from the unfolding situation, Emma is none the wiser to the possible danger her life was in until a young man forcefully grabs her by the elbow and drags her out of harm’s way.

 

“Excuse me!” she yells, wrenching her arm away from this stranger’s hand. “How _dare_ you!”

 

A laugh comes from beneath shaggy brown hair. “I won’t apologize for saving a beautiful maiden’s life,” he says.

 

His words fluster her, make her blush and cover her mouth daintily with her fingers. Emma looks to Elsa to gage her reaction, and her friend’s face is one she was certainly not expecting to see. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrows raised, and her posture more closed off than usual.

 

Left on her own for a response, Emma returns her gaze to the man. “Your words are too kind, sir.”

 

“Nonsense,” he responds merrily. “I only ever speak the truth.” Bowing gracefully, the stranger holds out his hand and Emma gently places hers there. “Neal Cassidy, at your service, milady.”

 

Tittering slightly, Emma grants him a nod back. “Emma Nolan,” she says. “I suppose I should be thank you for saving me from that carriage wheel.”

 

“All in a day’s work, Ms. Nolan.”

 

“Lady,” she corrects him. He cocks his head to the side. “Lady Emma Nolan.”

 

“Really now,” he says, his voice rising in disbelief. “And just what kind of lady might you be?”

 

“My father is the Baron of Misthaven,” she says proudly. Aristocracy may not mean as much as it once did, but the lineage of Misthaven is long and historic, impressive to even those who aren’t quite sure what an aristocrat is.

 

Neal smiles, a cat who’s got the cream. “Well, Lady Nolan, it has been my pleasure making your acquaintance today.”

 

It’s classic, timeless, the perfect storybook relationship from start to finish: after their introduction on the streets of London - after which he escorted them to the tea room - Emma expects not to see him again. But he shows up the next time she’s in town, this time on her way home from an afternoon at the workhouse. And the next, when she’s with Elsa and Anna, her younger sister. Mr. Cassidy seems to show up everywhere, each time with a new anecdote or reason for joining.

 

“Does this not seem a little too,” Elsa hesitates, searching for the correct word, “coincidental? It seems like every time you come to town, you stumble upon Mr. Cassidy.”

 

Emma laughs, twirling the stem of the flower the man in question had bequeathed to her this time they’d crossed paths. “I wouldn’t think of it as coincidence,” she answers, staring down into the heart of the flower. “I like to think of it more as fate. After all the trouble with suitors I’ve had, Lady Fate finally decided to treat me well.”

 

She keeps that reasoning in mind when Mr. Cassidy leaves bruises on her arms the next time he sees her alone, marking her as his possession in the middle of crowded London streets. The same when he loses his temper, starts a brawl, and ends up blaming her, accusing her of starting the whole ordeal so he can leave without question, making her sick with nerves for a week: that a few rough moments must be suffered through in order to gain the nirvana fate has in store for her.

 

(Ms Gibbs is the one who frequently sees her sneak from the kitchen and off to town, but never mutters a word when Emma comes back looking worse for wear. The maid merely helps her clean up and formulate excuses for parents’ inevitable reveal.)

 

Despite Elsa’s multiple warnings and the wounded ego she sometimes endures - she was raised with Graham’s ribbing, but even some of Neal’s words are coarser than she can imagine - Emma pursues him. There’s a tug in her gut that drives her to enjoy their increasingly frequent encounters. He’s charming, Mr. Cassidy. He’s excited about her - or at least he seems to be - and exciting to be around. It gets to the point where she wants to see him purposefully, and not risk the chance of not seeing him.

 

So she does what everyone - Elsa, Graham, her parents, all of her propriety lessons - has told her not to do: Emma calls on him. He’s told her that his father is a wealthy merchant dealing with precious jewels from the African colonies, and that’s enough information to find out exactly where the Cassidys live. Graham finally gives her an address in the city from a docksman.

 

Emma approaches the classic townhome, whitish exterior with black window trimmings and chandelier hanging on the portico. She knocks and is greeted by what she assumes is the elder Mr. Cassidy. He’s older than she expected; Emma supposes that, with how vivacious Neal is, his parents would be rather young. His weight is supported by a cane, causing the strands of his long gray hair to sway over his face.

 

“May I help you, dearie?” he asks.

 

After licking her lips and breathing away her nerves, Emma says, “I was looking for Mr. Cassidy. Well,” she nervously chuckles as she corrects herself, “the younger Mr. Cassidy. Neal.”

 

She can feel his eyes roam over her, taking in her appearance and overall countenance. It’s unnerving, to say the least. She’s beginning to think that she has the wrong house, maybe Neal lives one more over or on Fenchurch and not Gracechurch, when the distinct sounds of footfall coming toward the door.

 

The Mr. Cassidy she knows and may even love appears over his father’s shoulder and Emma lets go of a sigh she didn’t know she was holding. He’s not dressed for public and the sight of him in simple dress threatens to overwhelm her.

 

Catching her eye, the younger Mr. Cassidy sends her a wink before talking to his father. “Papa, you didn’t tell me we had a beautiful guest in our midst.”

 

“I didn’t know you were expecting any calls,” his father grumbles. His accent is more evident in this disgruntled tone, having completely bypassed her notice until just now. He’s Scottish, way out of his territory and homeland. Offhandedly, Emma wonders how he found his way down to London.

 

Pushing in front of his father, Neal turns his attention to her. “I’m always expecting the Lady Emma to call on me,” he says. “More hoping than expecting, but it seems that my dreams have finally come true.”

 

It’s certainly not the first time she’s blushed due to something Neal has said, but it’s certainly the first time she’s done so so furiously.

 

“Then by all means,” Mr. Cassidy growls, “invite the girl in.”

 

“Of course, of course.” Pushing his father out of the way, Neal’s smile warms her heart and calms her nerves. “Please, do come in, Lady Emma. Welcome to our humble home. It’s probably not as nice as Woodlands, but far be it from me to put words in your mouth.”

 

(She starts calling him by his birthname that day so as not to confuse the two Mr. Cassidys in the house, but not without consternation.

 

“Really, Emma, it makes more sense if you call me Neal. I don’t want to be confused with my father at all.”

 

“I don’t know; it seems improper with us knowing so little about each other.”

 

Neal comes to a stop in front of her. Turning slowly, a grin spreads across his face. He steps toward her and Emma does all she can not to swoon. “That is a situation easily remedied.”)

 

With her visit to the Cassidy house on Gracechurch, it’s as if some seal has been broken. She tries to see him whenever she’s in London volunteering at the workhouse and Neal calls on her frequently, most often at Woodlands. He seems to really take to the place, asking how they acquired this vase or what current deals her father is bartering. With ease, Emma shows him the ins and outs of estate living: riding, hunting, even sitting down at dinner parties with her parents’ acquaintances. Her mother sends her knowing looks whenever she catches them about together, coming back from the stables or sharing smiles across the dinner table. Her father, in his usual way, gives Neal cautionary looks and Emma understated silly faces.

 

Not everyone, however, is as excited for Emma’s new suitor as she or her parents are.

 

“Emma, be careful,” Elsa warns her as they sit down for tea one of the few days Neal doesn’t call on her or vice versa. “You know nothing about this man. There are people out there hunting for titles, not love.”

 

“For titles?” Emma asks incredulously. “What would give you have idea, Elsa? That’s not true for him; I told you that.”

 

“I know, my friend, but I can’t help the sense of dread that grows the longer your dalliance goes on.” Curling her fingers around her wrist, Elsa settles her hands in her lap. “What personal stories has he told you?”

 

It takes a moment for Emma to truly think of something. “His mother,” she finally says. “He told me about his mother.”

 

“What about her?”

 

“That she’s gone, died of the flu or some similar illness.” Groaning, Emma rests her head in her hand in frustration. “Elsa, I don’t have to tell you what he’s told me.” She sighs. “All you need to know is that I’m happy. This feels like the real thing.” In fact, Emma’s convinced that it _is_ the real thing. Love, true love, the kind she was raised with and dreamed for. “Do you understand? Do you know the feeling I speak of?”

 

Shaking her head, Elsa admits, “Not quite.” She pauses to take a sip from her cup, and Emma does the same. Then, Elsa sighs. “I know you think you love him, and I am overjoyed for you, but I only mean you should be wary. Don’t you remember what almost happened to me and Anna when Hans came into our lives?”

 

Standing abruptly, Emma feels her cheeks flush. She’s angry her friend doesn’t trust her judgement. Comparing her Neal to Hans - a foreigner twelfth in line to his own throne who preyed on Elsa for her title, and then her younger sister - was not only hurtful, but uncalled for.

 

“Duly noted,” Emma says sternly. “I apologize, Lady Elsa, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten a previous appointment.” Emma rings the bell, summoning Lance. When the butler arrives, she tells him to call for a carriage and escort Elsa to the door. “She’ll be on her way shortly.” She understands she’s being callous and unfair, but she’d rather risk her afternoon than her entire friendship. With a nod and a brief curtsy to Elsa, Emma leaves the room in a huff.

 

Instead, she writes a letter to Neal, telling him of the entire ordeal. _She claimed that we knew nothing of each other, when I know the opposite is true_ , she writes. _I know that what we have between the two of us is a solid foundation. We can go far in life if we go together._

 

Neal calls on her a couple days later after receiving and reading her letter. He’s barely out of the carriage before he’s offering a hand in condolence. Emma takes his offered hand without hesitation, unaware and uncaring of anyone who might see this blatant display of affection.

 

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Neal says instead of greeting her. She leads him into the front hall before he speaks again. “To have such a dear friend hurt you like that over me.”

 

Emma shakes her head. “It’s not like that. Elsa doesn’t understand. Not yet, at least.”

 

They settle in the parlor, as the pair tends to do when they don’t have concrete plans for a visit, and Emma signals at the lurking Lance for some tea.

 

“I do think she has a valid point, though,” Neal admits. When Emma glances at him with an unspoken question on her face, he sighs and sinks into the couch’s luscious cushion. “We’ve known each other these past two months and aren’t officially courting. Some people might think the worst of our relationship.”

 

“Does that mean...” Emma is afraid to ask, but the way this conversation is going, she knows that, by the end of it, she might finally be able to move forward with taking Henry in.

 

(And Neal still doesn’t know he exists.)

 

“Do you want to court me? Is that what you mean to say?”

 

It takes a moment in which Emma wrings her fingers in her lap and Neal looks anywhere in the room that isn’t her before he responds.

 

“Would that interest you?” Neal comes closer to her, scooting across the couch. He gets within reach of her hands and goes for it, stretching his arm out until he can intertwine his fingers with hers. She squeezes them and gives him a smile she hopes comes off as encouraging.

 

“I’d love to, Neal.” But then she ponders on it a second more, the image of little Henry appearing in her mind’s eye, and clears her throat. “There is something I should tell you, though,” Emma parse out slowly, measuring her words while measuring his response, “that I haven’t told you yet.”

 

“I would only assume so.” This time, Neal grasps her hand, running his thumb across the back of her hand. “Keep a little mystery, isn’t that what governesses are teaching these days? Or those silly little novels?” he jokes.

 

Nervously chuckling, Emma wonders where the best way to start her tale. She decides on taking the route that casually builds up to her revelation. “Well, it’s actually the reason I’ve been actively looking for a husband, so you should know it before we move forward,” she reasons. Emma inhales to calm herself - her hand is in Neal’s and the last thing she wants him to believe is that she constantly has sweaty palms. She focuses on their hands together as she says, “I’ve told you I work with the workhouse in town.”

 

“Yes, you have,” Neal confirms. She doesn’t speak immediately, which has him leaning forward, coming even closer into her personal space. “Is that the secret? Have you met an even more handsome suitor working for your hand?”

 

“No, no,” she titters anxiously. “At least, not in the conventional sense I believe you to be thinking of.” Emma gulps. “My first trip there I met this little boy. His name is Henry and I intend on adopting him and getting him out of the workhouse as soon as humanly possible.”

 

All Neal says is “How admirable.”

 

“Quite.” She’s ruining this story, but, deep in her heart, she feels that Neal is trying to understand her explanation the best he can. He hasn’t stood up and left in anger: he’s still here, his hand in hers, listening to her ramblings. “The only trouble is that my parents won’t take him in and they won’t let me take him in being unmarried.”

 

His comprehension arrives slowly, breaking over his face like dawn over the horizon. “So you’re looking to marry so you can bring this young lad home?” he inquires.

 

Emma nods. Her gaze has remained stagnant on her and Neal’s hands together, but now she raises her eyes to meet his. She knows he’s got brown eyes, warm and comforting when she missteps and falls on a walk, much the same now. There’s something else - another emotion she can’t quite name yet - behind them, but her exploration of it is interrupted.

 

“Emma,” he starts, “I’m glad that you told me about him. Henry?” She nods her head vigorously to affirm the information. “Henry is very lucky to have someone like you looking out for him.”

 

“Is that you saying no to a courtship between us?” Emma asks frankly. “Because, and I most sincerely apologize, if I have to choose between a suitor and Henry, I will choose that little boy.”

 

“No! No, no, that’s not at all what I mean to convey, Emma,” Neal quickly remedies. “No, I want to court you, Emma. I truly believe there’s a connection - a deep connection - between you and I, and if that means Henry joins us, the more the merrier, isn’t it?”

 

A wave of relief washes over her like nothing she’s ever felt before. The man she loves - for now she’s sure that _is_ what she holds for Neal, there’s no other explanation - wants Henry in their lives as much as she does. Her life could not get any better.

 

But the faster they rise, the harder they fall.

 

The morning she reads the announcement - “Lord and Lady Page and Mr Cassidy happily announce the betrothal of their children, Neal Cassidy and Lilith Page, to be married in the spring.” - Emma’s stomach drops lower than the seat on which she sits. She slowly sets the paper down, covering her what-will-remain-uneaten breakfast, and staring straight-faced at her mother.

 

(He just wanted the title. She wasn’t the quickest way to it and so he moved on.

 

Elsa wasn’t lying.)

 

Mary Margaret, of course, notices the change in her daughter’s disposition. “Whatever is the matter, honey?”

 

“Neal is to be married,” she says quietly, surprising herself for even speaking. At her mother’s raised brow and confused expression, Emma folds the paper and hands it across the table. Emma watches her mother unfold the paper and flip to the announcements section. She watches those kind green eyes widen in surprise.

 

“Oh, darling,” her mother croons, her expression falling into sympathy. “Emma, I can assure you, your father and I had no idea when we were discussing the terms of your courtship with Mr. Cassidy.”

 

“No, I’m sure it didn’t.” She can’t decide if she’s numb from betrayal or relief. From hurt or happiness. Suddenly, Emma stands from her seat at the table, forcing the chair she sat in to wobble and fall. “I’m sorry, I must excuse myself, Mother.” And with a slight nod and curtsy, she leaves the dining room, her mother staring worriedly after her.

 

(That unknown emotion she’d seen in Neal’s eye when she told him of Henry - it was betrayal.)

 

0000

 

It’s her quiet place, somewhere she can go where nothing and no one can bother her. Not her parents, not any chaperone they send with her, not the constraints or concerns of class and industry. Not even the wreckage Neal left of her heart.

 

She’s pretty sure that no one knows she frequents this factory warehouse, partially burned down in a fire a couple years ago and never rebuilt. Its replacement in Manchester is by far one of the most successful, always in the news for breaking this record of income or that number of products made. No, this empty shell of a building - with cracks in the walls, no doors on their hinges, and sunspots filtering in weak light from the ceiling - is hers alone.

 

(Vaguely, she wonders if this is how her city sisters feel - how she might feel - in a marriage not for love. Empty, sad, dreary.)

 

No one should be here. And yet she is.

 

There’s one part of the main floor that’s completely leveled and flat, the wall fallen away enough to let the light in, where she likes to dance. Her body’s movement to the song inside her head calms her, relieves her of any stress she might have. When she finds the time to come down here, close to the shady and untrustworthy dock workers and the sound of the Thames - it’s those times where she finds herself at peace with whatever fate she’s destined for.

 

The sun is weak today; rain has dampened the horizon for the past week and the smoke wafts over the small waves in the river. It’s not the most pleasant weather, but it’s the nicest they’ve had all week. What little warmth the sun offers falls on her cheeks. Emma breathes deeply, setting aside the thought of suitors and marriage, of her parents’ debt and Uncle James in the workhouse.

 

Today is for her. This excursion is for her, damn the consequences and lectures she’ll get for it later.

 

The first notes that chime in her head are something akin to a waltz - slow, measured. With no partner, an onlooker might find her back-and-forth swaying a bit odd, the type of action that gets a girl sent to the asylum or accused of hearing voices.

 

Emma’s found in her short time out in society that dancing is all the better without a partner. No bumbling fool to step on her toes and no musicians to dictate how and at what speed she bends her body. The downbeats have her rising on her toes and the offbeats have her twirling around. Her skirts float around her waist, occasionally snagging a bit on fallen wood.

As a smaller child, she’d had dreams of becoming a ballerina. In better times, Mother and Father had taken her to see the Russian ballet perform _Swan Lake_. The primadonna was the most graceful woman she’d ever seen.

(“Mama, I wanna be her when I grow up,” little Emma whispered to her mother as Odette pirouetted across the stage into her lover’s arms.

“You can’t be her, darling,” Mary Margaret said, patting her daughter’s hand. “You can only be you. But I know that you are going to grow up to be a wonderful, beautiful woman.”)

Ballet had never been part of her lessons. French, yes. Arithmetic, yes. Regular dancing – waltzing and such – of course. But ballet had always held a particular fascination. With the help of her maids, Emma taught herself the basics. It was her escape from arguments with Mother, poor hunting with Father, and any abysmal suitor experiences.

She hums the notes as she remembers them from the orchestra all those years ago. It’s not exactly on tempo, but then again Emma’s never been all too good at singing or music. This time around, she imagines herself in Odette’s shoes. A princess cursed to be a swan for the rest of her life. Sure, it wouldn’t be the best of circumstances, but it would be peaceful. Just floating around on the water, no concern for marriages or debts or workhouses.

 

A sudden “Your Grace” shocks her out of her fantasy. Emma’s arms slam across her chest, ready to protect and explain herself. Her eyes shoot open and dart toward the sound, only to be surprised when nobody appears. She’s still alone in the warehouse, nobody hiding among the fallen beams and ash. The only hint of another being is the vague outline of a shadow on the wood of the docks outside the wall.

 

“Who’s there?” she asks to the air. The fright causes her to breathe even more deeply, her chest heaving. Nobody immediately appears or responds, so she asks again, her voice stronger and more demanding. “Who’s there?”

 

Slowly and sheepishly, a dark-haired man reveals himself, stepping out from behind the destroyed wall. His head hangs in shame, keeping his features hidden from view. “I apologize if I was too bold, love.”

 

“Too bold?” Emma asks in confusion. “How do you mean, too bold?”

 

When the man lifts his head and shakes the fringe away from his eyes, the breath in Emma’s chest halts. It gets stuck between her lungs and her mouth at the sight of blue. This stranger’s cerulean eyes are nothing like she’s ever seen before; far more gorgeous than the murky depths of the river she was raised on, she imagines his eyes are the same color as the sea surrounding the Caribbean colonies.

 

“I meant when I said you were graceful,” he explains, gesturing toward her makeshift dance floor, “as you were dancing. Like a swan.”

 

“Oh,” she pauses. So this man wasn’t sent to look for her and probably doesn’t know her status. She was just a random woman dancing about in an abandoned building to him. “I’m sorry, I heard something else.”

 

The man shakes his head and waves off her mistake. “I should be the one apologizing. I seemed to have interrupted a beautiful performance.”

 

That makes Emma blush. “No, hardly. I come here sometimes when my responsibilities start to feel...overwhelming.”

 

The man nods, “I am in complete agreement,” before gesturing to the boatyards behind and beyond him. “Something about the tranquility of the water soothes the soul.”

 

Emma only responds with a quiet, “Quite,” and then the awkwardness that usually accompanies unchaperoned interactions between the two genders ensues.

 

(It’s not as uncomfortable as other instances, though, and that in itself is a bit...unsettling.)

 

She fidgets in the silence, a habit all her governesses used to chide her for. Despite her parents’ insistence to always speak her mind, entering society taught her to speak when spoken to, respond to questions but never ask them in a public setting. Which means Emma’s relying on this nosy man to either continue or bring an end to this conversation.

 

(She hopes and prays for the latter.)

However, the stranger thinks otherwise. “How did you find this place?”

“I don’t think it’s wise for me to be speaking with you further,” Emma says.

“Why not?” the man asks.

Scoffing, Emma steps toward him, out of what’s left of the factory and into the sunlight. “An unchaperoned lady talking to a strange man in the midst of these times.” She shakes her head. “Think of the gossip that would ensue.”

“So you are a lady?” the stranger qualifies. Emma mentally scolds herself. “I figured as much. The dames of lesser fortune aren’t nearly as elegant.”

The coy smile that decorates her face now she knows is something obscene, but she doesn’t care a lick. _Goodness me_ , she thinks. Mentally and physically shaking her head clear, she vows to him, “Whatever the case may be, not another word of information shall pass my lips. Good afternoon, sir.”

This time, the man scoffs. “As you wish, milady.” As he leans forward into a bow just less than proper, he asks kindly, “May I at least have the pleasure of knowing the name of the graceful dancer before me?”

 

In all honesty, Emma wants to tell him her name. She isn’t sure why: he’s pleasant enough to converse with, has provided a great relief from the propriety of titles and class even for their brief interlude. Wants to hear him say it in that certain charming accent of his. But her family name is already in enough danger as it is because of her uncle’s recklessness. So to have this man - whose name and purpose she has no idea of - know her name is to know her status, which in turn is to encourage him to leak it to the press for a quick coin.

 

No, she can’t tell him her name. She might not be able to do much for her parents, but keeping them from a scandal like this is good enough.

 

Emma shakes her head. “No.”

 

He seems taken for surprise, his spine straightening and his brows rising into his hair.

 

(They seem to have a life of their own, his eyebrows, moving up and down in an oddly expressive fashion.)

 

“May I inquire as to what I have done to offend you? How have I not earned the reward of acquaintanceship?”

That makes Emma let out quite an unladylike snort. “What _have_ you done to know my name?” she counters. “You ruin my peace, you interrupt me mid-dance, and you frighten the living death out of me.”

Raising his hands in defeat, the stranger laughs heartily. “All truths. Again, I apologize for my impertinence.” He offers his hand to her. It’s more out of propriety that she takes it (her manners are nothing if not ground into her mind and soul) it. Bowing at the waist, the man presses his lips to her knuckles.

(She absolutely does _not_ blush. A stable or servant boy’s lips have graced her skin before, but there’s something about this man’s that are inherently…different.)

“If ever you find yourself in need of reprieve again…” He pauses for a moment, adding to the tension already between them. “Or merely desire to see this handsome face again, don’t hesitate to ask a docker or the quartermaster for Killian Jones. They’ll know exactly where to direct you to reach this dashing rapscallion.”

 

Not attempting to hide the rolling of her eyes, Emma chuckles. “Now you _are_ too bold.” She hesitates though, thinking over her next words carefully. “If ever I have the need, Mr. Jones, I assure you.”

 

Killian Jones nods and then slightly bows again. “Until the next time we meet, Lady Swan.”

 

Emma doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t know her true name, but the pet name he’s chosen for her…

 

(She thinks she’s fine with that.)

 

0000

 

Lance finds her shortly after she returns from the abandoned warehouse.

 

“His Lordship requests your presence in his study at your earliest convenience,” the butler monotones. Emma nods silently and heads up to her father’s library. Her nerves, despite everything, begin to get the better of her.

 

(It’s not the first time she’s run off on her own, but it’s been awhile since he’s lectured her on the subject.

 

What a way to make your daughter feel better on this already red-letter day, she thinks.)

 

But her nerves fall away when Emma knocks on the sturdy wooden door. Her father’s deep voice allows her entrance, and she slides in, letting the door shut with a satisfying _thump._ The baron turns around and, seeing his daughter, forgoes his current task in favor of opening his arms wide.

 

“Come here,” he says comfortingly. When Emma doesn’t make to move immediately, David wiggles his fingers. “Come on, darling. You know you can't resist the opportunity to hug your papa.”

 

(Even at nineteen, it’s very much true.)

 

Emma gradually picks up speed, making her way across the room until she’s safely cradled in her father’s arms. His hand smooths the hair at the back of her head. It isn’t until now that she realizes how devastated she is about the news of Neal’s engagement. Surely she knows herself enough to know that she was _in love_ with him - that this is heartbreak she feels her father trying to heal her from. But something so familiar and comforting about her father’s embrace breaks her. The tears come full force, easily soaking through the top two layers of garment covering her father’s shoulder.

 

Shushing her softly, David begins to rock his daughter back and forth, creating a soothing rhythm for her to focus on. “Everything will turn out as it should, my dearest daughter,” he murmurs. “Even if it hurts for now, it will get better.”

 

Emma sniffles and clears her throat before answering. She may not have been completely aware of being in love, but she does know the situations in which her voice may betray her. This, most certainly, is one of them.

 

“But it was so real, Papa.” She sniffs again and thinks out which word exactly will come out of her mouth in order to calm herself. “I loved him and he was courting another woman the whole time.”

 

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

 

The silence that follows David’s admittance doesn’t go on for that long. Thoughts spin through Emma’s head faster than a horse galloping through the pasture, but it’s the one - the one that jump started this entire ‘find a husband’ endeavor - that forces a gasp from her lips.

 

“I told him about Henry,” she whispers to her father. “I told Neal about Henry and how I wanted to get him out of the workhouse.”

 

“Have you told any of your other suitors that?” David asks.

 

Trying to recall and finding nothing, Emma shakes her head. “I mean, I told Graham, but I didn’t expect him to be amenable to my proposal.” Eyes wide, she looks to David with fear and confusion. “That’s not why he’s betrothed to someone else, right? Because I told him that?”

 

“You know I wouldn’t know, honey.”

 

She thunks her head into his shoulder soundly. “You could at least pretend you knew and tell me no regardless,” Emma suggests petulantly.

 

“Ah, but then I would be lying to you just as he did, wouldn’t I?”

 

Emma heaves a sigh. “I suppose.” Burrowing further into her father’s arms, she stays quiet for a moment. “Papa, are you sure you and Mama won’t take in Henry?”

 

David laughs. “We’ve had this discussion already, Emma.”

 

“But I’m going to be a spinster,” she groans. She feels like a child again, knows that she reverts to this whiny almost-Emma when she speaks of her desire to save Henry. She can’t help herself. “I just want Henry to have the opportunity of a life outside of workhouse walls.”

 

Fervently, her father reassures her. “And he will. You won’t become a spinster, either.” He pats her between her shoulder blades, his attempt at calming her down. “A young man will peak your interest one day, and he’ll look at you as if you are the stars in the night sky. He’ll treat you as his own Majesty, the queen of his heart, the sovereign of his lifeblood.”

 

His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. It’s her father’s small tell: every time he really wants her to know that he cares, his hand wraps around the base of her head, just as Emma’s sure he did the first time he held her. He rocks them slightly from side to side, lulling her into a fatigued trance. “You shall tell him of Henry and he will jump at the chance to care for this boy, cherish him because you love Henry and this man loves you.”

 

Wistfully, Emma sighs. “You make it sound so easy.”

 

“It should be simple, with the right person.” He says it like it’s the truest fact in the world.

 

(And, now that she’s think about it, it should be. The sky is blue. It rains often in London. Love and life is simple with the right person.)

 

David kisses her on the crown of her head. “Life is made up of moments: good ones, bad ones, all of them worth living,” he says. “You’ve got to live through the bad ones to experience the good ones.”

 

“It’s just been bad moments after even worse moments for months now,” Emma complains. “First Uncle James, then the suitors, and now this ordeal with Neal.” She flicks her fingers up at each passing obstacle. With a cant of her head and a dour frown of her lips, she says, “Don’t you feel like you deserve a good moment? We deserve a reprieve.”

 

“And your happy moments with Neal were the break you deserved, for now,” her father contends. Gently, he strokes her hair, from the crown of her head down to the tips at her midback. “Worry not, my darling daughter. Everything will turn out as it should be.”

 

0000

 

For a long while, the only time Emma deigns herself good enough to leave home is when she’s scheduled to be at the workhouse. The only thing that gets her out into society is the promise that, at some point in the day, she’ll be able to see Henry.

 

What she does at the workhouse depends on the day. Her favorite days are when she’s charged with the children: making sure their spirits are high, their brains are taught, and their fingers aren’t broken. Henry tries to hold back the special bond between them, but always ends up failing adorably by hanging off her skirts.

 

Other times, she’s bunched in with the working women, mending clothes for them and serving the small meals they’re given. And yet other times, Robin takes her under his wing and shows her how to file the paperwork associated with the running of the workhouse, or the transfer of workers, or just about anything else.

 

She’s never, ever allowed in the men’s quarters. It’s the one thing that Robin and the mysterious foreman agree wholeheartedly on.

 

(Emma’s still yet to meet the head guardian, charged with the entirety of the workhouse. According to Robin, he’s always dealing with unruly debtors or attending a yet another meeting in Parliament on the benefits of workhouses.)

 

(She’s convinced this foreman figure doesn’t exist, that in all reality it’s Robin and he just doesn’t want to own up to the title.)

 

It’s not the most fashionable role to play - it’s dark and sometimes smoky - but the rewarding feeling Emma walks away with every time she heads home from the workhouse is irreplaceable. Some of the women might wither away from toil and sickness, but Emma likes to think that what little she does makes what’s left of their lives a little more bearable. And though the children might have streaks of dirt on over their faces, the lights in their eyes when she walks in the room for their lessons cannot be dimmed.

 

(Especially Henry’s.)

 

However, much to her dismay, she’s made no progress in coming closer to adopting Henry. The suitors her parents have presented to her - in name and theory only - have done nothing but frighten and depress her. It’s not for lack of trying on anyone’s part, but after Neal left her high and dry, the romantic nature of men has been soiled transiently, if not permanently, for Emma.

 

“What am I going to do, Graham?” she moans, falling back into the settee. Her friend sits across the parlor from her, content with his teacup balancing on his knee. “I adore Henry and I know he does the same, but I can’t subject myself to marriage with the first stranger who proposes.”

 

“I’ve an idea,” Graham says conspiratorially, “and you might not like it, but it would benefit all parties involved.”

 

Silence hangs between them. When it gets to be too heavy for Emma, she raises her eyebrows and hits Graham’s shoulder. “Well? What’s this brilliant idea?”

 

“I’ve a mate,” he starts, “a friend of a friend, really, who's recently gone through a rough time with his lady.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes. It’s typical of Graham to try and solve two problems with one solution. “Are you suggesting I court this man with the intention of marrying him because he needs a wife?”

 

“I’m suggesting you meet this man with the intention of courting him to save both of yourselves.”

 

“And how exactly would I be saving him?” she asks. In turn, Emma leans forward, matching her friend’s posture. “A title? Graham, you know as much as I do that those mean nothing anymore. You’re planning to sail away from yours.”

 

Heaving a sigh and rubbing at his forehead in frustration, Graham corrects her. “No. You get the monetary security your parents want and he gets a wife. A partner in life who takes no tomfoolery and can knock some sense into the,” he hesitates, searching the space between them for the correct word, “rambunctious lifestyle he enjoys leading.”

 

Emma pauses, thinking over what her friend’s said. “So you want me to tame the beast,” she states simply.

 

His head rolls around on his neck for a moment before conceding. “In so many words, yes.” Emma scoffs and sits back in her chair. And then, realizing that an idea like that is incredibly _insane_ , she stands up and begins pacing about the room.

 

“I know it isn’t the brightest prospect, Emma, but he’s an honorable man at the heart. Just meet him. You don’t even have to tell your parents at first. Say you’re calling on me at home and we’ll go to him. I’ll chaperone.”

 

Arms crossed over her chest, Emma turns and glares at Graham. “There is so much that can go wrong with that brilliant plan of yours. So much that _is_ wrong with it.”

 

“While true, remember,” Graham says with a smirk, “be merry, for tomorrow you may die.”

 

Pointing an accusatory finger in his direction, Emma says, “That is irrelevant.”

 

Graham’s smirk melts into a genuine smile. “You need the money. He needs the companionship.” He claps his hands and then settles easily into his chair. “It’ll work, I promise.”

 

With that, he reaches forward for his cup of tea and takes a sip far too happily for Emma’s taste. “Call on me Tuesday next and then worry for not a thing after that.”

 

0000

 

Emma’s body flies up and slams back down on the carriage seat. The road leading to Wolverton Estates has never been smooth - holes every couple of yards, hidden under grass in other places, and practically a nightmare in the bitter months of winter - but taking it twice in as many hours is the worst.

 

“And you honestly have to ask my reasoning for never coming to call on you?” Emma asks, trying to brace herself for the next bump and failing miserably.

 

Graham sits across from her in the carriage and merely shrugs. “Maybe if you came more often, you would get used to it,” he replies.

 

“Yes, or my body would be irreparably shaken out of sorts.” The carriage jumps over another hole in the road. Graham’s smirk grows when Emma reacts to the motion. She rolls her eyes. “So, where did you meet this friend of a friend you so want me to court?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Graham looks out the window, reminiscing as the trees begin to thin out the closer the ride to town. “It was after I’d gone down to the docks in search of a crew to join - ”

 

“You’ve found a crew?!” Emma yells. “How could you not have told me!?”

 

“I haven’t found a captain who’s willing to let me on their crew, which is why I haven’t told you.” Emma calms. They’re still bouncing around, much more gently now.

 

“Anyway, after a rather long and unproductive afternoon, I went to a local pub for a pint. We got caught up in a conversation over rugby and the water and...” Graham trails off when he sees the incredulous look on his friend’s face. “Whatever’s the matter with you?”

 

“You want me to court your drinking buddy,” she says flatly. “You want me to meet and possibly marry the man you met at a bar.”

 

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to say this entire time.” Heavily sighing, Graham sinks back into the fabric of the seat. It’s luxurious - a soft, red velvet with a golden trim - but time has not been kind to it. When they were younger, they used to sneak into the stable and bounce around in the carriage.

 

Her friend’s hand runs across his forehead in mock frustration. “Cripes, Emma, I knew you were dense, but never to this degree.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Do I at least get to know the name of this man?”

 

“Jones.”

 

She waits for something, _anything_ , else to supplement the name. “Is that all?” she asks. “What if that’s not his real name?”

 

“It’s his last name,” Graham reassured her. “He once told me how his brother is a huge merchant who trades across the ocean, Liam Jones.”

 

A brief thought flits across her mind: the man she’d met at the docks, the one who frightened her in the warehouse ruins, his last name was Jones. K-something Jones. She can’t remember much of what he said, other than he was charming (like Neal was) and she was heartbroken (because of Neal).

 

“So Jones is his last name,” she says slowly, the meeting with the man on the docks fresh in her mind. It would be too much of fate’s interference, too big a coincidence if they were the same person, right? “All right. This ought to be interesting.”

 

0000

 

Graham and this Jones fellow agreed to meet at a coffeehouse off Oxford Street. It’s busy with foot traffic and the carriage rumbles by. The vehicle rolls to a stop, causing a breath of relief to leave Emma’s lips, in front of Turk’s Head coffeehouse. Men of all sorts file in and out, with even more sitting and being served outside in the mild London weather. Few women hover nearby, either as bar maidens or lovers.

 

The footman opens the door and Graham steps on to the street first, taking the servant’s place to hand her down. The moment Emma descends from the carriage, she feels all eyes fall on her. It’s obvious why: she’s young and attractive, with an equally handsome escort, entering one of the city’s most notable men’s clubs, for all intents and purposes.

 

“Are you sure it’s wise to meet here?” she asks though she knows it’s too late to change their course.

 

Her friend takes her arm and threads it through his crooked elbow. “It’ll be fine,” Graham assures her. “I won’t leave your side. And, if need be, we can take a walk. This is just a meeting place, a familiar point to start this courtship.”

 

Emma scoffs. “You’re quite confident.”

 

His wink is obscured by the shadow of the doorway. “I am, and for good reason as well.” Ushering her inside, Graham respectfully nods his head toward the owner of the establishment, who returns the gesture, and shows Emma to a table. He pulls out the seat for her, the one facing the back of the club, patterned with full shelves of books.

 

(Though it’s a beautiful sight to behold, Emma knows he’s done this on purpose. He’s hiding his friend from her until the last second.)

 

(She hates it.)

 

“I have full confidence that you and Jones will hit it off,” Graham declares.

 

“And whyever do you believe that?” Emma asks. She’s goading him, producing a conversation topic, but also trying to get a better sense of this man, the one Graham thinks is the solution to her problem.

 

Graham grins like he’s in on a secret. Which, in all fairness, she thinks, he is. “You’ll understand shortly. I promise.”

 

The owner comes to their table, a pewter mug in each hand. He’s barely set them down on the table before Graham shouts an excited exclamation.

 

“I’ll be back in a jiff,” he tells Emma, slamming his hand on the owner’s back on his way to the door. For her part, Emma silently sips from the proffered mug until her friend returns. Graham comes back into her sightline while his mate - this Jones character - stays behind her.

 

“Lady Emma Nolan, I’m pleased to introduce you to my mate, Jones.”

 

“Killian Jones,” a deep voice corrects Graham, sending shivers down Emma’s spine. “I figure it’s only right for a lovely lady to know my full name from the beginning.”

 

She knows that voice.

 

She knows that name.

 

And once she twists around in her chair - so fast it makes her head spin - she knows that man.

 

And the moment her eyes connect with his, Emma’s jaw drops. They’re all too familiar: she’s seen them before, in the weak English sunlight and not the darkness of this coffeehouse. They’re blue, open as the fields between Woodlands and Wolverton Estates.

 

Coincidence, then, is not too far out of the question.

 

“Swan,” he says softly. “I never thought you would coming calling on me.”

 

“To be fair,” she insists, “I didn’t.” Emma gestures to Graham, who’s moved to her side and in between them, just as he promised. “My dearest friend here called on you in my stead.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Killian Jones nods sagely. “Our mutual friend, milord Fulham.” His smile changes as he looks to Graham instead of her. “Remind me to thank you most graciously, mate, at a later point.”

 

Graham nods, but his head shares looks with the both of them. “You know each other already?” he asks. Then, looking to her, says with a chuckle, “Dear Emma, what trouble have you gotten into lately that has you and the likes of this ruffian crossing paths?”

 

“It’s none of your business, if you must know.”

 

“The Lady Swan has made a habit of twirling and dancing among the docks,” Killian provides. He winks at her. Emma rolls her eyes.

 

(Now she can’t go back to that warehouse in her times of need. Many thanks, Mr. Jones.)

 

“That’s how we first made our acquaintance,” he finishes.

 

Forgoing propriety, Emma smacks him, aiming for his knee but ending up on his thigh. “Don’t tell him that,” she growls. “Nobody knows about that.”

 

The bow he bestows on her is far too dramatic for ayn reason other than a play in the theater. “A thousand apologies, milady,” he says with a nod to Graham. “Aside from this bumbling fool, your secret is safe with me.”

 

The other man, for his part, sighs and offers Emma his hand. She takes it, allowing herself to be pulled up from her seat. “If you both are quite done, might I suggest we go for a walk?” Graham proposes. “Perhaps down to the docks?”

 

Killian agrees wholeheartedly. “Fitting, if you really think about it,” he mumbles to the both of them. With Emma’s hand still in Graham’s, Killian offers his arm to her. “Would you do me the honor of walking with you down to the docks, milady?” he asks.

 

It takes great effort not to laugh at his question. “If Graham doesn’t deem it immodest, I don’t see why not, Mr. Jones.”

 

“Please, love,” he begs her, “call me Killian.”

 

0000

 

Killian’s overall countenance makes her wary, and multiple times during their stroll, Emma is glad to have Graham less than a step behind them.  It’s not that he’s not charming or shy or all-around endearing.

 

He reminds her too much of Neal. Because this is how Neal wooed her, tricked her. This is how Neal won her heart fast and broke it even faster.

 

But she did that by herself. To herself, with no one’s permission. This time, she reasons, Graham’s approved of the suitor. And from what she learns in their conversations, Killian might actually be a better man than Neal.

 

(Not that she tells him that. Oh goodness no. Even a small comment the likes of “Thank you for not walking like we’re escaping from a fire” make his eyes light up, his smile widen, and his chin tilt down. It’s almost as if Mr. Jones takes everything she says as a compliment, has it float straight from his ears to his ego, inflating far more than it already has.)

 

His brother is the famous international merchant, Liam Jones. Emma’s confident enough in that truth, especially when he points out his brother’s ships along their trail. Though he doesn’t work within the family business, he does enjoy being by the water, dirty as it may be.

 

(“It’s calming, Lady Swan,” he urges, tugging slightly on her arm. Killian catches her eye with his and smiles. “Don’t you think so?”)

 

And there isn’t that tugging feeling Emma had when she first met Neal, the one that had her sneaking into town unsupervised and made her feel as if she’d perish the moment she left his presence. Instead, there’s a warmth of camaraderie between them that fills her chest.

 

Emma is content. It may not be the love her parents have, but she can imagine living out the rest of her life with Killian Jones. That’s how Her Majesty and the late Prince Consort came to fall in love, wasn’t it?

 

“So, Lady Swan,” Killian begins, “you seem to know quite a lot about me, but I’ve yet to gain much knowledge about you.”

 

Emma hums, looking coquettishly down at the ground. They’re moving in sync - left foot, right foot, left, right. It’s comforting in spite of the conversation topic she’s been avoiding telling him since they set off from the Turk’s Head, the reason she’s even trying so hard to find a fiance.

 

“Are you telling me that a man actually wants to know something about a woman?” she teases.

 

“I mean to say I want to know more about you,” Killian easily answers. Pointing at her in accusation, he adds, “There’s a secret behind those beautiful green eyes of yours and I’m merely curious as to what it might be.”

 

“Mr. Jones, I hardly believe us to be acquainted enough for me to reveal my deepest confidences,” she chides him.

 

He laughs, stroking what little facial hair decorates his chin. “Truth enough, milady,” he concedes. “May I, then, bother you with one question?”

 

Emma shrugs. She looks over her shoulder - “Of course, Mr. Jones.” - to make sure that Graham still hovers behind them. He does, hands behind his back and grinning at his friends in front of him. He catches her glance and nods toward her, both a reassurement and a reminder to pay attention to the man next to her.

 

“Why are you intent on marrying me?”

 

The question takes her by surprise. So much so, Emma stops walking, causing Graham to brace himself on her shoulder to keep from knocking her over.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Is that not what this meeting was for?” Killian asks. Looking over his shoulder, he gestures to Graham with a wave of his hand. “If not, my mate has sorely misrepresented your intentions.”

 

“My intentions?”

 

Killian nods slowly. “Graham told me you’ve been searching for suitors since shortly after season’s end,” he explains. “My question is why?”

 

“Isn’t that what is expected of me?” Emma retorts.

 

“I suppose.” She can tell he’s not at all happy with her response. His eyebrows crinkle together, either in confusion or discontent. He opens his mouth once as if he was about to say something, but reconsiders it a moment later. “But, if it’s not presumptuous of me, you don’t come off as the girl whose only dream is to wed.”

 

Emma sighs. She should have figured he would catch on to that soon enough. If Graham’s told him a single memory of her from childhood, Killian would know that dinner parties and idle fashion didn’t at all suit Emma’s interests or desires. But she’s reluctant to tell anyone, let alone this man - whom she’s just properly met - about Henry after what happened when she last told someone.

 

She glances briefly up to meet Killian’s gaze. There, she finds something reassuring, a yearning of a sort telling her she need not be afraid to share her burdens. Despite having recently met - or met again, that being the case - Emma trusts him.

 

(The third time’s the charm, is it not?)

 

Besides, Killian is her last chance at a real suitor. If he rejects her offer, then she’s back to square one, off to every party and social calling in hopes of finding a suitor kind enough to accept her and her baggage. If Emma’s doing this all in, she needs to be completely honest.

 

(Maybe it was the lack of complete honesty that drove Neal away from her and to this Lilith character.)

 

“I want to take in a child,” she finally says, staring intently at her stationary feet. “A little boy, to be specific. He’s about seven years old and has never seen sunlight and I’m doing everything in my power to get him out of the workhouse he’s in.” Unplanned emotion clogs Emma’s throat. Recollections of her last encounter with Henry and the last time she recounted this story mix together, drawing up sadness and hope into a massive block of her voice.

 

After a few unsuccessful attempts, she swallows the obstruction down. “I asked my parents if they would take him in, but they told me they were too old to raise another child,” Emma continues, “that it’s my turn, but they don’t want me to do it alone for fear of me being sent to the workhouse because I am unwed.”

 

For a moment, she peeks at the men flanking her on either side. Both seem to be listening attentively to her tale. It only occurs to her now that both Graham and Mr. Jones were unaware of the passion behind her quest. In fact, Mr. Jones’ eyes bulged, making his blue eyes even fairer and more attractive in the dreary dock light.

 

“I know, it’s not at all ideal for a marriage,” Emma says nervously, stumbling over the words ideal and marriage, “and if there was another way where I didn’t need to involve a gentleman such as yourself, I would take it.” Gazing directly at Killian, taking in the curve of his brow as it rises with query, she explains, “But I’ve been trying for months now and I do not believe there’s another way.”

 

With a decisive glance at her fingers twisted among their brothers, Emma breathes deeply and looks ahead. She’s giving both men a moment to contemplate her words; meanwhile, Emma observes the ships and wood walk before them, her heart somehow a little bit easier.

 

(Damn this man, this Mr. Jones. The water really _is_ calming.)

 

“I’ve overwhelmed you.” It’s not a question, but a strong statement: she nearly did the same to herself. Her eyes shift from her surrounding to her closest friend, his eyes wide with fright. “The both of you. I apologize most profusely, but, if you recall,” she directs to Mr. Jones, “you did ask me why I wanted to marry.”

 

“I do.” His voice is a shadow of its past intonation. “I’m glad I did.”

 

Emma’s shoulders slump. “I knew it would be too much,” she concedes. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones. I didn’t expect much from this meeting. To be quite honest, I only came to keep my old friend here from bothering me too much.”

 

On his account, Killian shakes his head quite forcefully. “Lady Swan, you mistake my words for a refusal.” Emma faces him, her brain moving far too sluggishly in comparison to how her neck whips in his direction. “While it does seem a peculiar reason for a woman such as yourself to marry, it is not at all obscene.”

 

“What are you saying?” she asks.

 

Killian looks at Graham for a second before connecting his eyes with Emma’s. In a scandalous move, he grabs her hand.

 

(It’s warm, calloused on his middle and pointer fingers. He must write a lot to have such pronounced injuries.)

 

“I can be of service. My occupation…” He hesitates for a moment before restarting. “I’m the guardian of the workhouse in London. I can search for a procedure that would allow the lad out and into your care. _Our_ care.”

 

That throws her for a loop. Well, two things stun her, only one of which she vocalizes. “ _You’re_ the foreman who’s always too busy?”

 

(She’s just told him about Henry and he’s already professing his care. _Their_ care.)

 

His eyebrows raise high on his forehead. “What does that mean?” Killian asks.

 

Emma laughs and flashes an eye at Graham, who smiles and explains. “Emma here volunteers her time at your place of work quite often.”

 

This time, when Killian’s eyes go wide, she gets to watch the entire transformation. It’s humorous, to say the least. “ _You’re_ the stubborn aristocrat Robin keeps going on about?” he asks incredulously.

 

“It seems I am. I’m glad my reputation precedes me.”

 

“Indeed.” As his eyes return to a more normal size, the width of his eyes transfers to the spread of lips, opening to show Killian’s white teeth. “It’s nice to have a pretty face to picture when Robin grouses.”

 

(Emma can’t tell if his words are meant to be a compliment on her looks or a criticism of her presence at the workhouse.)

 

“So now you have a better understanding of my reasoning behind marrying,” she says, making sure he knows what she intends to do in the future, should Killian choose to be a part of it in any way.

 

“Yes, indeed I do.” Adding further intrigue to the personality behind the man, Killian takes to silence. He gives Emma and Graham a small nod before leaving them, walking toward the edge of the dock.

 

“Do you think he’ll jump?” Graham jests, leaning down to whisper.

 

Emma shrugs. “I honestly haven’t a clue.” She crosses her arms over her chest, anxiously watching Killian get closer and closer to the water below. “I know it’s quite life-changing on top of an already life-changing enough proposal, but there really is no other way to phrase it.”

 

Large hand landing on her shoulder, Graham’s words are reassuring: “You’ve done what you can with him. The rest is his choice.”

 

The minutes seem to drag by. Killian spends a long time looking down at the water. As his companions on the walk, Emma and Graham stay silent further back, maintaining their balance the best they can when a wayward ship or boat floats by, sending waves beneath their feet.

 

Emma’s taken to counting the warps in the wood under her feet to bide her time when footfalls draw her attention.

 

“I’ll do it.” Killian’s voice is firm and commanding - no questions allowed, no second guesses to the matter.

 

And still, Emma can’t believe it. “Really?” she asks. “You’re accepting? You’re alright with me using you like this?” Her voice has shot up an octave, if not more, but she honestly can’t wrap her mind around it. If she were in his shoes - a friend of a bar mate asked her to marry - she’d take a step back and send him in the direction of the closest church or asylum, she can’t quite decide.

 

Killian chuckles. “It’s not using me if I agreed to all the terms beforehand.” Though he does hold up a hand to stop another of her exclamations. “Those are all the terms, correct? There isn’t some dark dirty secret you plan to reveal only when it’s useful for you?”

 

“Well, you would get a title someday, but it wouldn’t mean much.” Emma supposes that, if he’s reacting so well about Henry, he might to the say for all of her dirty laundry. “Some regrettable events have recently befallen on my family, leaving us without any huge amount of funds or a bit of a shadow to our name.” A quick glance to Graham has a smirk spreading across her face. Cocking her brow, Emma inquires, “Changed your mind yet?”

 

“Not at all.” Shrugging, Killian is the perfect image of nonchalant and unphased. “Women ask after my job and find it too abhorrent or dirty for them. Who knows when I’ll receive another offer from such a forward lass.”

 

(He’s actually okay with this. Killian’s _it_. One day, not too far in the future, she’s going to be Mrs. Killian Jones.

 

Cripes.)

 

Despite her misgivings and concerns, Emma grins wide. “Mr. Killian Jones, you are a saint.”

 

He smiles back, the words obviously stroking his ego as she previously observed, but the blush on his cheeks betrays his true feelings. “Lady Emma Swan, you’re quite the marvel yourself.”

 

“Nolan,” she corrects him. At his confused expression, she expounds. “My family’s name is Nolan.”

 

Clucking his tongue, Killian shakes his head. “Oh no, love. You’ll always that lass I saw twirling about in an abandoned warehouse.” He winks at her, that saucy tongue peeking from between his lips for but a moment. “You’ll always, first and foremost, be my swan.”

 

0000

Killian decides to escort her back home the next time she’s at the workhouse, finds her walking among the rows of women sewing other people’s clothes. He greets her with a quiet smile and Emma can’t help but bite her lip.

He asks her parents’ permission to court her that evening, after her father invites him to stay for dinner and her mother sends her questioning and almost pitying looks.

(Her father refers to Killian as Jones almost immediately, a nickname she adopts as well when he’s frustrated her in any number of ways.)

(For his worth, Killian takes it in stride. He insists on pushing her buttons on purpose, Emma believes.)

Their courtship is short. A chaperoned outing or two at the most, and then down to the business of the wedding. She tries to reason with herself: this isn’t a marriage for love, more out of necessity. If she wouldn’t have shamed the family name, Emma would have probably skipped courtship and gone straight to the altar just to get the ordeal over with. No fancy balls in their honor, nor parties or gifts or really anything to celebrate this union. All business. Better for her to be safe and unhappy than dead or a whore.

(She’ll never be able to truly enjoy the wedding portraits the way her parents do theirs.)

It’s a simple affair, the wedding. Nothing too gaudy — that’s not his style and she hardly has enough for a dowry.

(He tried to tell her parents he didn’t need one, didn’t _want_ one, but she’s nothing more than a pawn in a game meant to keep her parents out of the workhouse or shipped off to a colony.  Surely he must be rewarded for taking her off their hands and out of their pockets.)

Her parents are there, Father at her side, Mother teary-eyed in the front pew of the church, and Elsa next to her, lips pursed but expression otherwise neutral. Graham and his parents behind them, along with a few other of her family and parents’ friends. A quick glance at the opposing side has even fewer people. A man taller than her fiance, with curls of auburn atop his head, stands at the front, a soft smile on his lips. Emma can only assume this is her soon-to-be brother-in-law, the Liam she’s heard all about.

(Later that evening, Emma learns from Liam’s wife Ruby that he’s awaited this day since his mother showed a younger brother wrapped up in her arms and not a sister.

“He hasn’t kept quiet on how excited he is to officially have a younger sister to dote on,” she says, eyes all moony as they watch the brothers laugh across the room.

“Surely you’ll have a daughter all your own one day for him to spoil,” Emma insists.

Ruby nods, curling an arm around hers and pulling Emma closer. “With God’s grace, yes, but to dote on a sister is far more different and amusing than it is a daughter.”)

And straight in front of Emma, just to the right of the priest, stands Jones, dressed in his finest. It surprises her, to see him in Navy regalia. Blue suits him quite well, brings out his eyes even more, even from yards away.

(She didn’t know he served. It’d been peaceful for so long, she’d forgotten what war time was like.)

(This man is to be her husband in a matter of minutes, and she doesn’t know that he served in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, the pride and joy of the country’s military.)

The ceremony is short and to the point. She vows first, “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.” Standard words for a standard practice. It’s nothing more than what needs to be said.

But him...Oh, he throws her for a loop, taking the vows into his own heart and mind.

“Lady Emma, I take thee today as my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. I will protect you, and cherish you, and any children God grants us. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.” His words are so sincere, his eyes wide with wonder and intrepidness and, by God, Emma feels like she’s stolen this man’s life away just to reach her own means. “I pledge myself to you on our wedding day and everyday for the rest of my life, dearest Emma, my beautiful Swan. My wife."

Unbidden tears spring to her eyes, forcing her to drop one of his hands to dab them away. He gives a small chuckle, and his fingers join hers on her cheek. Quietly, he says, “I apologize sincerely. I did not intend to upset you.”

That causes her to giggle. “Don’t all brides cry on their wedding day?” she counters.

Killian shrugs. “I’ve only known brides to be blushing and beautiful, both of which you are, unsurprisingly.”

Through the few tears still rolling down her cheeks, Emma emits a brief chuckle. “There’s no need to flatter me any more, Killian,” she tells him. “We’re getting married.”

He leans forward so that the tip of his nose touches hers. “All the more reason to do so,” he whispers, a telling grin spreading across his lips.

Liam slaps his brother’s back, getting him once again focus on the priest marrying them, on the words that come out of his mouth instead of the sly smile Emma feels cross her face in response to his.

Though it seems much to the clergy’s chagrin, he bids that the groom may kiss his bride. Emma looks at her husband - dear Lord, she’s a _wife -_ expectantly. She’s nervous, her teeth coming out to bite on her lower lip. Taking a step into her personal space, Killian sets his hands on her shoulders.

And asks, “May I kiss you?”

It stuns her, to be fully honest, though she isn’t quite sure why. He’s been nothing but the truest gentleman she’s even had the pleasure of hearing about, let alone knowing, and now she’s _married_ to the man and he’s asking if he can kiss her.

Words failing her, Emma merely nods, small and succinct. If possible, Killian’s smile grows wider. Her eyes fall shut as he approaches, so that the only reason she knows he’s kissing her is because of the pressure on her lips.

It’s...actually quite a pleasant sensation. Now that she knows basically what it feels like, she can feel his hands large at her waist. Testing herself, Emma pushes back, her hands coming rising to cup his neck between them. She can feel the rapid pulsation of his pulse beneath her palm and when they separate briefly to breathe, she can equally feel the movement of his Adam’s apple when he gulps.

When they pull back, touching only with clasped hands, the few gathered are applauding the nuptials. Emma feels her cheeks go red at the same time she sees Killian’s flush.

“You asked me,” she whispers. “Why did you ask if you could kiss me?”

Killian shrugs. “It seemed rude not to give you a choice,” he says matter-of-factly.

Even as they’re settling into their shared chambers that night, his facade doesn’t fade. He’s lying across their marriage bed when Emma enters from her chambers in only her shift. She’s wringing her fingers over her stomach, the weight of the situation heavy on her shoulders.

Killian sighs and reaches his arm toward her. “Don’t be nervous. We need not consummate our union together, darling.”

Hesitatingly, she nods in agreement. Her arms cross over her breasts, trying to hide them, though she doesn’t know why. For all intents and purposes, in the eyes of the law and God, she belongs to him now.

Sitting up, Killian lets his arm fall to the mattress and slides toward her, but doesn’t rise from the bed.

“I’m quite serious, Swan. What we do as a couple in our bedroom is as much your decision as it is mine.”

She scoffs. “You say that now, but surely later, you will get tired of my disagreement and just–”

“Are you forgetting that I _asked_ to kiss you at the altar not seven hours ago?” Killian asks. “I will not force myself upon any woman, least of all my own wife,” he says sternly. “And you aren’t to be one to question that. I am your hus–”

“You might be my husband, but I am your wife,” she nearly yells. “I am a living, breathing being as much as you or your brother or any other man. I have thoughts and desires of my own that cannot nor should not be held at a lesser standard.” She realizes, quite belatedly, that her arguments aren’t necessary. Killian seems to understand that she wants them to be equals. “I am more educated than you, have been taught longer and more subjects than you. I am smarter than you, and you would be wise not to forget that, husband.”

Killian’s eyes widen, and then he smiles. He stands and approaches her, and she steps back, keeps moving until her back hits the wall. Emma begins to cringe, fearing a horrendous beating at the hands of her keeper.

(It’s what Neal would have done, what Neal did.)

But his hands gently rub at her biceps and he crouches until he’s at her eye level.

“Your voice has been heard and it shall not fall on these deaf ears again,” he whispers. His lips press against her forehead and he pulls back. “I am so fortunate to have married you.”

“Come now, Jones, don’t be so daft,” she says, trying to hold back a grin at the compliment.

(His and her freedom have officially been taken away from them, she should not want to smile, she cannot be at all pleased with this arrangement.)

(But his gentleness and kindness warm her heart and plants a seed of hope in her brain. Maybe this marriage won’t be a complete sham after all.)

But he, somehow, sees right through her, already shaking his head before she even finishes her complaint. “Ah, ah, you must call me Killian, love, for you, too, are a Jones now.”

(She hates how he’s right.)

0000

Marriage, Emma finds, isn’t as hard as she once perceived it. It’s different, surely, but she finds herself waking up happy and falling asleep even happier.

Spending her wedding night at Woodlands is certainly an experience. Killian’s brother and sister-in-law are off in another wing as normal guests do, but she and her husband sleep in her childhood quarters. For Emma, this is rule breaking: for years, she contemplated sneaking lads up to her room. Her plans were always foiled, but that night, as she bid her parents goodnight, her steps subconsciously lead her up the stairs to her room and, not knowing what else to do, Killian follows.

As her parents and Liam inform them at breakfast the next morning, it’s the only time they’ll be forced to do that.

“Consider it a wedding present,” her brother-in-law tells them, handing Killian a key and a slip of paper. “Mostly for Emma.” Liam winks at her and she blushes. “For taking my little brother off my hands and finally getting him out of our house.”

(Emma feels Killian lean closer to her and whispers, “Younger brother, I’m his younger brother, not little,” under his breath.

She giggles.)

“We figured you should really be off on your own,” the baron says, taking some toast from Lance’ offered tray. “As much as we’d love you both to live here, your mother and I both agree that it could potentially lead to some awkward encounters.”

“Though you shouldn’t take that as any indication that we don’t want you to come visit,” her mother interjects. And with a hand toward Liam and Ruby, she adds, “You two as well. We’re all family now. You’re more than welcome to visit and stay should you find yourself a bit sick of city life.”

The couple share a glance before Ruby claps happily and says, “Thank you, that’s so kind. We’ll be sure to send ahead should we come by.”

“And if at any time, my beautiful bride gets to be too much of a burden, please be sure to send her back home to me.” Liam grins dopily at his wife. “I’m sure to be missing her.”

“I, too, grew up near the forests,” Ruby stage-whispers across the table, making sure everyone around hears. “My mama used to say I ran with the wolves.”

In an equally loud whisper, Liam says, “I’ve still yet to been convinced otherwise.”

The meal goes by with laughter and before Emma knows it, she’s blowing kisses out the window toward her mother, then her in-laws are waving goodbye from the carriage while she and Killian stand in front of a townhome. It’s beautiful: the brick is just red enough to stand out among the duller houses on the street and the stair railings leading to the front door are a shiny iron.

“I can only speak for myself,” Killian says, his eyes roaming the three floors above them, “but I did not know my brother loved me this much.”

“Nor did I,” she mumbles. Then she catches her words, the meaning behind them, and Emma shakes her head. “I mean, about your brother and you. Or my parents.”

Killian rests his hand on the small of her back. The action stuns, makes her flinch at the unexpectedness of it all. “Worry not, Swan,” he heartens, “I understand what you mean.” With sure feet, he jingles the key between his fingers and walks up the steps.

She intends to follow Killian, but suddenly, Emma’s feet are stuck in place, one on the bottom-most step of her new home. She’s thrown back months in the past, to the first time she walked up the steps of a different townhouse, white on the exterior and holding hugely contrasting occupants. She’s subjected to all of the memories - happy, sad, and otherwise - associated with the one person who lived in that charming city house in a flashing moment. It hurts. Her heart’s beating fast and she can feel sweat starting on the back of her neck and there’s absolutely nothing Emma can do to stop an oncoming panic.

Killian’s halfway up to the entrance when he asks, “Are you coming, Swan?” When she doesn’t answer immediately, he turns around, smile wide. “Swan?” he repeats himself. She wants to say something, anything to comfort and assuage his nerves, but her mouth is stuck wide, though she’s not sure why or how. Quickly, he jogs down the steps and sets his hands on her shoulders, giving them a slight shake. “Emma, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she utters.

“Do what?” Killian inquires. “Be married? Emma, love, I told you, we’re in this together, I’m not going to-”

“No,” Emma whispers, “no, it’s not that.” She points to the house, what’s supposed to be their home, in front of them. “I can’t go in there, not again.”

“Again? Emma, when was the last time you were in this house? I was under the impression you’d never seen it before.”

Shaking her head, she takes her foot from the bottom step. “I haven’t.”

Killian throws his hands up in the air in confusion. “Then what’s wrong, Swan?” he asks.

She grabs his forearms and yanks them down to his side. Breathing deep, Emma says, “Before we got married, when you asked me about all my secrets,” in one exhale. She squeezes her eyes shut, sneaking a gander with one. “I may have withheld one.”

“What?” He risks a quick glance at the building before looking back at her. “You hate townhomes? You want to live with your parents or my brother and his wife?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” Her grip on his arms tightens. She’s using him as her rock, the thing to anchor her at the foot of what’s going to be their home. “Before I met you, I meant to court and marry another man, named Neal. He lived not too far from here, in a place that looks similar to this.”

“He must have been quite the merchant.”

“He lived with his father,” she says offhandedly. “His father trades in gold and such. Liam probably knows him.” Inconsequential, undeniable facts. They help her parse out the mess of thoughts running through her mind, but they’re not at all what she wants to say. “I digress. I think I saw this and it just…” Emma meets his eyes and the depth of their color allow her to finally breath, “reminded me of everything he did to me.”

“What did he do?” Killian’s hands grasp at her upper arms and jostle her lightly. “Emma, what did this muck snipe, ass of a man do to you?” His voice is astringent, the protectiveness obvious. It’s so unlike the Killian she’s become familiar with that she physically tries to take a step away. Sensing her skittishness, he lets go of her arms and allows her to move.

“Our courtship was to be announced,” she explains, “but then he became engaged to someone else.”

Livid unintelligible mutterings slip from his mouth. With their newfound space, Killian runs his hand through his hair and over his face. “The lowest of class,” he grumbles in frustration, “how dare he do that to my wife.”

(It’s the first time Killian’s referred to her as his wife. She feels like she should be happy about this, she revel in her new title, but she can’t fully enjoy it.)

“Killian, it’s fine.” Once again, Emma’s the one grabbing at Killian’s arms. She’s trying to settle him, calm him down by downplaying what can't be fixed now. “It’s in the past. I’ve got a wonderful husband now and a brand new home to explore and settle into.”

“Emma, it’s not fine,” he admonishes. “You’ve said it before yourself: you, too, are a human. Anyone who treats you less than that is the worst type of person.” Slowly, Killian’s hands come up to cradle her face. His thumb settles comfortably in the dent of her chin. “Neal may be a part of your past, but he’s helped make the woman I married. Do not devalue any part of you.” Killian shares a small smile. “Promise?”

Her shoulders shake slightly, on the verge of tears the likes of yesterday, but Emma nods. “Yes, of course.” She sniffles.

Hesitating for a moment, Emma watches Killian’s anger dissipate in his eyes as he nods. Mischief replaces it. Before she can accuse him of devilry, Killian crouches down and scoops her into his arms.

“What in the world are you doing?” she shouts, laughter softening the severity in her question. “Killian, put me down!”

“I shan’t!” With Emma curled up in his arms, he mounts the stairs and pushes open the door to their home. “Last time you walked up the entrance to a house like this, the person who lived in it left you alone.” He sets her down on her feet in the entryway. “Never again. This is our home. It may not look like much right now, but we will make it ours.”

Emma chuckles before turning to her husband and saying, “Thank you, Killian. Thank you for understanding.”

“This time, it really is nothing, love. I, too, understand the feeling of betrayal.” At her perplexed look, Killian coughs and clears his throat. “When I was younger, I fell hard for a widow. Milah - that was her name - her husband was a criminal sent to the Australian colony for his crimes.”

Emma’s surprised by how hard it is to swallow before asking, “Did you love her?”

She’s doubly taken aback when Killian doesn’t answer her question instantaneously. His hand rises to scratch behind his ear, and drags down his features until he’s pondering and scratching at his facial hair. “I did,” he admits. “A small part of me still does and always will.”

“That explains Graham’s introduction of you,” Emma recalls with a sad smile. “If I recollect correctly, he said you were having trouble with your lady and you needed a wife to counteract your rambunctious lifestyle.”

Killian starts scoffing until his exhalations transform into full-fledge chuckles. “Bastard.”

“He only wanted what was best for you,” she argues sympathetically. Then she shrugs. “You have to give it to your mate, though. He saw you in despair and did what he thought would aid you best.”

Nodding deliberately, Killian mulls over her suggestion. “I suppose I can’t fault him for trying,” he ultimately decides to say. On a sigh, he continues, “I loved Milah wholeheartedly and well. But then her husband found his way back from the prison island.” Emma knows what’s coming - for as much of an act he puts on from time to time, Killian’s eyes are far too expressive and open for her to deny the outcome of his story - and it hurts even her when he whispers, “She chose him over me.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing she can conceive to say. Just as in her situation, she can’t protect him from something that’s already happened in his life: she can only offer her condolences and help him move forward with his life. His life with her.

“What Graham said was true: after she returned to her husband, I lost myself in drink. I stayed in my room and read. Liam and Ruby were worried for me.” Killian pulls at his high collar, uncomfortable, she can only assume, with how weak he seems. “It wasn’t until Graham stumbled into me at the coffeehouse and started a brawl that bloodied the both of us that I realized how much I needed to change.” A fond expression falls across his face as he looks down at her, the few inches separating their eyes shrinking. “And then he told me about you.”

Emma gulps. “Do you mean to say I’ve changed you?” she asks hesitantly.

“You’ve helped me mature a tad, darling,” Killian admits. “For the better, I’d like to believe.” His hands are at his side for the moment, but he soon opens them wide. When Emma doesn’t move, Killian sighs and shakes his head. “We’re married, Swan. One day, we’ll engage in far more crude activities than an innocent embrace.”

“I know what a hug is, Jones,” she grumps. Emma approaches him until she’s close enough to his arms to fold around her body.

(He’s warm. Hot, even. She made note of the fact while sitting next to him in the carriage over here, but wrapped up in it - her face against his shoulder and his arms across her shoulders - it’s almost overwhelming.

Almost.)

Tentatively, Emma returns the gesture, winding her arms around his waist. “We’ll change this place, spruce it up,” Killian pledges, his voice sotto voce in her ear. “We will wash away those memories of Neal and his townhome and our home and our life will take their place.”

Emma realizes how cozy she feels - how she’s unconsciously huddling closer into Killian’s embrace - and can’t deny herself a secret grin. Her face is hidden in her husband’s shoulder. “How in heaven did the fates bless me with you as a husband?” she asks after no uncertain amount of time.

She feels more than sees the rise and fall in his shoulders. “They saw two broken hearts and figured they’d still work when put together.” They separate, disconnecting every part of their body save for the index finger on his hand, which hooks around two of her fingers. Gently, Killian begins to pull her toward a room off the entryway. “Come, let’s see what tomfoolery we can uncover for ourselves.”

0000

To say the first few days - nay, weeks - of living away from her parents with a man she hardly knows are awkward would be an understatement. All her life, she’s been taught to stray away from men, their habits and such, because how they shave their facial hair or whatever is some huge secret. A matter of hours into her marriage to Killian reveals that none of those ‘secrets’ are too scandalous or frankly worth keeping secret for so long.

Three days after their wedding, she watches him shave over the wash basin for the first time. It’s hypnotic: the way he glides the edge of the razor up and over his Adam’s apple, pulls the skin on his cheek to assure every sprout of hair is cut. Emma can’t fathom how he’s out in the cool morning air, actually doing productive things.

(She, on the other hand, has the bedclothes pulled up and over her face so only her eyes show.)

“You’re staring, Swan.” The chuckle in his voice subtly worries her, the image of Killian slicing his neck far too vibrant in her mind.

“I’m sorry I’m concerned for my new husband,” she mutters. Her breath is hot enough to warm the bottom of her face and she savors it while it lasts.

Placing the razor on the dresser, Killian turns to look at her, eyebrow cocked and eyes way too blue for such an ungodly hour. “Have you never seen a man shave?” he asks.

Emma shrugs. “Never had the occasion or reason to.”

A fortnight after their wedding, Liam comes to call. The three of them have a lovely dinner together and, afterwards, her brother-in-law suggests he and Killian go into the study for drinks. Her father and uncle often did the same thing, sending her off to bed and her mother upstairs to read.

“Swan, love, do come with us,” Killian says as he stands up.

“Am I allowed to?” she asks, glancing at Killian, then Liam, and back again.

Killian shrugs. “I don’t see why not. This is your house as well last I checked.” When she didn't make to move from her seat at the dinner table, he inclines his head toward her. “Unless you don’t wish to accompany us.”

“No, no, I’d love to come.” This time, Emma stands from her chair and takes the hand her husband holds out for her. “I merely thought it was a boys’ club or something. I didn’t want to intrude.”

Liam releases a hearty laugh as he follows them to the study. “Emma, you could only make after dinner drinks better.”

And Killian was right: the more time they spent as a couple in the townhome, the more it felt like a real home. A new beginning for the both of them. Factoring in the commute from her new living space to the workhouse, Emma had a lot more free time, and she puts it to good use. A conversation over dinner produces the decision that, though it’s just the two of them for now, the house is too large for Emma alone to upkeep.

(She briefly entertains the idea of asking Ms. Gibbs to come from Woodlands, and perhaps Lance and one of the footmen as well. She settles for asking for recommendations and guidance in the matter. Both of them are more than happy to be of assistance.)

This starts her three-week long endeavor to hire a permanent housekeeper and a manservant, all the while making the high entryway more welcoming, the three guestrooms more homey, and the rest of the house somewhere she’d want to come back to.

(Emma decides their bedroom should focus on the color blue. Even when he’s gone, she’d always be able to hide away in their room and be reminded of Killian’s eyes. They are her favorite feature of his.)

(When he first sees it, said eyes go wide. “You’ve made it blue,” Killian mutters. “Blue like the sea and the water.” He walks further into the room and hangs off one of the poles of their four-poster bed. “It’s so calming.”)

(It really is, in more than one way.)

As is the routine they’ve managed to comfortably settle into. Killian’s not exactly her husband - technically, they aren’t married, seeing as the relationship has gone unconsummated - but they aren’t complete strangers at that. As sad as she is to admit it, Emma would consider Killian her confidante: she assumes it’s only natural, what with the living, breathing, and sleeping in the same bed together. It’s not the marriage she’d always dreamed of, but she’s happy with it.

But every time Emma tries to bring up Henry, something else comes up. They’re either interrupted by a wayward horse on the way to the workhouse or Booth the manservant would be confused over something in his quarters. Even months into their marriage, Emma had only been able to explain and mention Henry maybe a handful of times. Her lack of progress not only takes a toll on her heart, but on the boy’s as well.

“Can I come home with you yet?” he asks after the children’s lessons, as the others run to get some food first. “Emma, can I go with you?”

It breaks her heart when, every time, Emma is forced to shake her head and sadly respond, “No, Henry. Not yet.”

She tries to pretend that his downfallen expression doesn’t massacre her emotions, but if a tear or two rolls down her cheeks on more than one walk back home, she’s reminded of what Killian told her when she told him about Neal: she’s only human.

  
( _Soon_ , she tells herself. They’ll talk about it _soon_.)


	2. Chapter 2

On a enchanting fall evening, Killian’s hand wrapped around hers in a gentle show of their peculiar affection, Emma sees Woodlands for the first time in a new light. The sprawling cut of land that was once her only home now feels like a warm memory and not a triumphant return home.

“Huh.” Killian glances at her noise. She shakes her head slowly. “It’s odd coming back here after all this time.”

“You haven’t been gone all that long,” he reasons with her.

“I know, but I think it’s…” The carriage pulls around to the front entrance and Emma shrugs. “We have a home. This was my home for nearly two decades, but it’s only in this moment that I realize it’s not anymore.” Killian opens the door and exits, holding his hand out for her to take. “Do you understand what I mean?” 

He nods, pulling her arm through his with his free hand. “I had the same struggle when we called on Liam and Ruby the first time.”

The small knot in her stomach melts away when she finds Lance’s familiar face standing in the doorway. He smiles, deigning his former charge’s return a good enough reason to break his stoic facade. Lance inclines his head as they approach, greeting her with his customary deep, “Good evening, Lady Emma.”

She gets surprisingly emotional, gently tugging Killian to a stop in front of the butler. “Hello, Lance. How have you been doing?”

“Quite well. The house is quite a bit quieter without you and the young baron of Fulham running about.” Emma blushes. Intent on responding, she opens her mouth, but Lance halts her by inclining his head to Killian. “Would you do me the service of introducing your escort tonight?”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Emma scoffs at her forgetfulness. Either due to the rapidity of their nuptials or because of the butler’s fondness of propriety, Lance and Killian had never been formally introduced. “Lance, this is my husband, Killian Jones.” Turning to her husband, she splays out her hand. “Killian, this is Lance.” 

The butler offers his hands for a shake. “A pleasure, Mr. Jones. I do hope you’re taking care to treat my lady well?”

“Of course, sir,” Killian reassures him, grasping their hands together. With a slight nod, he adds softly, “Though I would welcome any sage advice you might have on the matter.”

Further breaking his stone mask, Lance emits a chuckle. “I might only say that it never hurts to have some sweets on hand,” he provides. “There was more than one occasion when Lady Emma was a little lass that she was swayed into good behavior with the promise of a biscuit.”

“Lance,” Emma whines. Both men laugh around her, deepening the color in her cheeks. Yanking on Killian’s arm, she apologizes: “I’m sorry, Lance, but I heard Mother calling and you know how she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

(She knows it’s a lie. Lance knows most fervently it’s a lie. Neither mention a word.)

The baroness, though, is already halfway out of the dining room on her way to come find Emma and Killian. She meets them soon after they leave Lance’ presence and ushers them into the dining room.

“You two are the last ones here and your father has been looking forward to this meal all day,” Mary Margaret mumbles to hastily apologies from the young couple.

They, it seems, are not the only one invited for dinner tonight: Elsa and her aunt, as well as Graham, Ruby, and Liam sit around the table headed by the baron.

(Emma is very afraid: she desperately hopes that her parents aren’t trying to butter her up for some reason.

Although knowing her mother, that’s almost entirely the case. She’ll reveal her hand of cards in good time, leaving her daughter to fret until then.)

“Thank the good lord, you finally arrived,” Liam groans, voicing the general opinion of the room. “Sit down, you two before I start eating my wife’s fingers.”

“Unnecessary picture, brother,” Killian scolds him. He pulls out Emma’s chair for her and pushes her in when she takes her seat. Then he traverses the room to sit across from her, between Elsa and his sister-in-law. With a nod and a suave “Ladies” to both of them, he sits down and dinner begins.

For a more casual meal, the baroness really outdoes herself: five courses including dessert, excellent service, delicious tastes, the best wines from the cellar. At least once a course, someone moans contently and expresses their compliments to the cook downstairs, which Lance passes along with ease.

When residents and guests are pleasantly satiated, they split off - the men to the study to talk hunting or finances or whatever else they wish and the women to the parlor for the latest gossip, surely.

Killian appears at her side before exiting the dining room. He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against her cheek, and whispers in an oddly tender tone, “Don’t miss me too much, Swan.”

A giggle falls from her lips before she can stop it. “Oh, I won’t,” Emma soothes. “I wish I could say the same for you, though.”

He clasps her hand and pulses his fingers, the only confirmation that he’s heard her words. Then Killian follows his brother off to the study to join Graham and her father and Elsa gently guides her to a chair in the parlor.

“You look happy, Emma,” Lady Ingrid says as greeting. Usually a woman to keep her thoughts to herself, Elsa’s aunt rarely says anything unless it’s a direct question or a threat toward her or her nieces. “You shine in whatever room you walk into.”

“I agree,” Ruby says, a smirk far too familiar spreading across her face. “In fact, I’d even go so far to say you’re practically glowing.”

Oh no, Emma thinks. No, there’s only one context in which that phrasing is used.

(Ruby’s smile reminds her of Killian’s, when he’s being smart with her, or can’t help but inherit one of his more cavalier moods.)

(Even without saying a word, she is absolutely confident that her mother has somehow put her friends against her for the one purpose of finding out whether or not she’s pregnant.)

Moaning, Emma glares at her mother, who is far too interested in the patterning of the settee on which she sits. “Mother.” Mary Margaret looks up innocently. “What are you up to?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Emma sighs. Making an effort to make eye contact with all the women in the room - especially Ruby and her mother, knowing that the first is all too excited to watch her squirm and the second honestly wants to know, yet is too scared to ask herself - Emma is firm when she tells them, “I am not pregnant.”

Ingrid’s expression doesn’t change, and Elsa’s shifts a fraction toward disappointment. Ruby’s face contorts into something along the lines of amused disgust, but it’s her mother’s reaction that hurts the most.

“How can you be sure?” she asks, her thumb coming to her lips to bite on the nail. It’s a nervous tic Mary Margaret’s had since Emma was a little girl, if not longer.

Any other topic. Emma wishes they could be talking about any other topic than the imaginary possibility of her being pregnant. She’s thought about it, sure, especially before she asked Killian to court her, but off in the future. Right now, her focus is on one child: a seven-year-old boy with brown hair that falls over his forehead who’s never seen sunlight in its natural form. It plays a part in exactly why she and Killian haven’t consummated their marriage yet. And when she shares that information with the ladies gathered, their reception is varied.

“You WHAT?!” Ruby shouts, frightening poor Ingrid so much she jumps in her seat.

“Really?” Besides her aunt, Elsa’s reaction is the most subdued, and Emma understands why. Ingrid forced her to be presented in society, as opposed to Anna, who was enthusiastic to say the least at the prospect. But even after attending their wedding, Elsa could sense there was a special connection between Emma and Killian. She’d said so in the few times they’d seen each other over the past couple months. Though she herself might not be interested in the finer, more intimate details of a marriage, it seems Elsa had assumed Emma was.

“Why not, honey?” her mother asks, standing and coming to take a seat next to her daughter. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Emma says, “at least I don’t think so.”

“How have you not?” Ruby inquires incredulously. Her hand lies over her heart in shock. “When I married Liam, I was scared out of my wits, but our wedding night was absolu-”

“Mrs. Jones.” Ingrid prevents Ruby from uttering another word with austerity. The younger woman at least has the gall to look ashamed. “Though I do not believe it’s proper to be speaking of such activities at all, it is most certainly not appropriate to speak of it in such detail.”

While Ruby turns as red as her name suggests, Mary Margaret tugs on her daughter’s hand. “Emma, we discussed this before your wedding,” she mutters. “As a wife, your husband expects certain things from you.”

“I know, Mother.” Emma scoots a tad away from her mother, creating some space she needs to think. “Killian understands. We had a long conversation about it when we were here on our wedding night with you and Papa and Liam and Ruby.” Staring pointedly at her sister-in-law, Emma continues: “Even if we had sealed our marriage, we certainly wouldn’t have done it here at Woodlands, under the same roof my parents and in-laws.”

(She isn’t quite sure, but Emma believes she hears Ruby grumble something about it “never stopped us.”)

“As much as I hate to note it,” Elsa does, heedless of her own words, “if you and Killian don’t consummate soon, he could use it against you. Isn’t that right, Aunt Ingrid?”

Ingrid nods. “He could accuse you of being unfaithful or impotent.” Folding her hands in her lap, she shrugs and adds, “Say that you haven’t been fully married and the law would side with him.”

“But why would Killian desire to leave me?” Emma asks. “We’ve been doing well. We’re happy enough.”

“You are,” her mother says. “I’ve never seen you happier than when you and Killian are in the same room. But the question is is he?” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “Honey, you know I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring you, but you’re his wife.”

Her voice is stern when she replies, “And I told you, Mother, Killian and I have talked about this extensively.” Scoffing, Emma raises her hand to run it through the ends of her hair, only to realize that it’s up. She’s still getting used to it, and since Killian seems so fond of it when it’s down, she doesn’t wind up her tangle of hair on her head unless she’s with company. Emma sighs. “I’m so sorry I brought this up.”

“Actually, you didn’t.” Elsa finally speaks up again to correct her. With a slight nod toward her sister-in-law, she says, “Ruby wanted to know if she was going to be an aunt, so she asked us all to play along before you and Killian arrived for dinner.” Realizing Emma’s disappointment, she adds, “I apologize."

“Thank you, Elsa, but it’s not you who should be apologizing. Nor you, Ingrid,” Emma says, halting the other woman’s words before they leave her mouth. “I know it’s in neither of your character to do such a thing.”

Pointing at her mother, she narrows her eyes. “You would do it with the kindest of intentions, Mother, but it would be more thoughtful if you had asked me in private.”

And, finally, moving her finger so it pointed toward Ruby: “It is quite characteristic of you, though, dear sister, and I’d rather you didn’t.”

Ruby shrugs and glances nonchalantly at her nails. “I will not apologize,” she says with a wicked smile. “You know Killian would make a wonderful father.”

“And so would Liam, yet you don’t see me calling on you and subversively trying to deduce if you’re with child.” Emma sighs. “Ruby, the time isn’t right. Not now. I’m…”

It’s only now - as she stutters over the words and phrases to glue together in order to properly convince these women that she is not and will not be pregnant in the near future - that Emma realizes they don’t know the true reason behind her marriage. That Killian didn’t court her properly, see her in the street and follow her home to ask her father's permission. That she approached him with this deal, all for the sake of a child that Emma already considers her own, despite the fact that he doesn’t live with them. That she doesn’t want another child, not now, when Henry’s well-being and sense of family is her foremost concern.

“Killian and I are looking to take in a little boy from the workhouse. That’s why we married in the first place,” she admits, closing her eyes in something akin to shame. “My parents wouldn’t take him in, but said if I married, they would encourage me and help me as they could.”

Though her mother knows the situation, the only person in the room whose eyes don’t widen in surprise is Ruby. Instead, she throws her hands up in the air, palms open. “I merely mean to say that sex can strengthen a marriage, no matter how taboo it is to say so.” She nods to Mary Margaret. “As the only other married woman with experience of that nature, I’m sure the baroness would agree.”

Before her mother can utter a word, Emma holds up her hand. “Please, Mama, spare me from the nightmares.”

Ruby groans in frustration. “Just try it,” she whines. “Talk with Killian. See how he feels - genuinely feels - about the situation. If I had done so with Liam, I firmly believe we’d no longer be married.”

“Why?” Elsa asks. “Even from the few times I’ve seen you, I can tell you work so well together.”

“Now,” Ruby scoffs, rolling her eyes. “At first, it was awkward. I didn’t want to marry him, but my grandmother insisted that I get out from under her roof. But, he asked and offered and Granny accepted in my stead.” She stands then, takes a stroll around the room, casually looking out the window into the darkest the backyard offers. “But once we dressed down to our skivvies - no barriers - we connected.” Shrugging, Ruby once again turns back to her captivated audience. “And I can’t thank God enough for my husband, the loving man that he is.”

In the silence that follows Ruby’s story, Emma can’t help but ponder the efficacy of her sister-in-law’s experience. If Liam was anything like Killian - which, blue blue eyes aside, she knows how alike the brothers are - the same should work with her husband.

Her husband, however, isn’t the problem. She is. To be frank, she’s frightened by even the prospect of being that close, that intimate with someone. Emma knows him better now than when she married him, but that’s a far cry from meaning she’s comfortable with him in that sort of manner.

Yet Killian got over any of his discomforts - meeting her family, embracing what’s left of the aristocracy, ridding himself of the chance of his own love to explore marriage with her - within mere minutes and hours of agreeing to marry her. He’s been concerned about her well-being the entire time and she’s barely had the thought to ask about his. Unintentionally, Emma’s been quite unfair toward her husband.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of Ruby’s face in her view. She’s kneeling down in front of her, her hands resting on her knees. “Talk to Killian,” she insists. “Really talk to him and ask him what he wants. As ladies, we sometimes get too caught up in our own thoughts and how our men treat us and forget they’ve got desires as well.” Ruby taps her knee gently and smiles. “And I expect to hear every detail afterwards.” 

Emma shakes her head, a depreciating chuckle escaping her lips. “Of course you would.”

The carriage ride back to London is quiet and tense. Liam and Ruby sit across from them, their hands intertwined in his lap. Ruby’s lain her head on his shoulder, and together they watch the countryside of Woodlands fade into the close buildings and flooded streets of the city at night.

(These two obviously wanted to be together. Liam pursued Ruby, and their level of affection may have started off as cordial, but only because there was already love on which to found their relationship.

Emma tries not to feel jealous of that.)

Every so often, her sister-in-law sends an intentional sagacious glance Emma’s way. The conclusion of their conversation in the parlor was firm, but Ruby’s looks make her uncomfortable, even more so with the heavy, warm weight of Killian’s hand in hers.

Rolling to a stop in front of their home, Emma and Killian bid the others a good night. She watches the carriage take off again over her shoulder, Killian guiding her up the steps and inside.

“Graham certainly is a character,” he casually comments at the same time Emma asks, “Do you resent me for not having sex with you?”

Coughing, Killian stops in the halfway up the stairs. “Excuse me?” He turns and looks down at her, standing by the railing on the bottom step. “What gave you that idea?”

“My mother and the other woman cornered me after dinner tonight and tried to convince me I was pregnant.”

“But you’re not.” Killian cants his head to the side and he takes a step down toward her. “Right?”

Shaking her head and waving her hands in front of her, Emma scoffs, “No, of course not.” Mimicking his action, she takes a step up. “But that means I had to tell them we hadn’t…” She struggles for the least crude phrasing. “Well, that we hadn’t." 

He nods. “Understandable.” Closing the distance between them, Killian canters down the stairs. “That still doesn’t completely explain why you would think I’m cross with you.”

Emma shrugs. “I dunno.” Sighing, she reaches up to her hair, pulling at the pins holding it up. Killian’s hand swats it away and begins loosening the pins. Her eyes slide shut at the flood of blood rushing back to her scalp. The feeling allows her time to contemplate what she actually means.

“I suppose I was under the assumption that I’ve been depriving you of some worldly pleasure, all under the guise of a marriage so I could take in Henry,” she explains, adding, “which, we’ve still yet to talk about.”

“I know, love, I know. Soon, I promise.” Pulling free the final pin, Emma groans at the tumble of hair that falls down her shoulders. Handing her the pins with one hand, Killian playfully tugs on the ends of her hair with the other. She grunts, twirling around to eye his accusingly. His hands fly up in surrender, innocent smile on his face.

“You know I don’t mind. I agreed to these conditions on the docks, Graham as our witness.” Slowly, his arms fall to his side, making a sound as his voice when he says, “I told you on our wedding night: any of that matter is your choice as much as mine. We’re husband and wife, a team together for life. It’d bad form if I were to be angry with you on account of that.”

“So you’re not cross with me?” Emma asks hopefully. She feels almost like she’s a lass again, begging her father to allow her on the hunt or to dance at the ball for just a few minutes more.

(A fleeting image of a little girl at Killian’s feet, with pouted lips and wide eyes, appears in her mind. Should they have children, Emma’s positive a daughter will take after her and ruin her father.)

“Never.” Killian grins wide, a finger coming up to tap the tip of her nose. “You’d have to do the world of harm before I’d be cross with you.”

Emma smirks cheekily and takes his hand. “Is that so?” At first, she begins mounting the staircase backwards, but her dress becomes too burdensome, forcing her to turn around. She tries to be playful, something that comes naturally in their relationship usually, but seems to be an effort now that she’s thinking about it.

“What are you up to, Swan?” Killian asks. His eyebrow soars up his forehead as he dutifully follows his wife upstairs. Emma can feel his eyes on her as she makes it to the top step and down the corridor to their bedroom. “Swan?”

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure,” she admits, passing through the doorjamb of their room. Emma pulls Killian until she can sit at the foot of their bed. “But our dear sister-in-law mentioned a thing or two we seem to have been missing out on.”

Killian tsks her. “Oh, darling, you should know by now to take anything Ruby says with a grain of salt.”

Emma giggles, grabbing at the lapels of his dinner jacket and bringing his face to her level. “I suggest you wait until you pass judgement,” she murmurs before pressing her lips to his.

Their first time together - ever, for both of them, in addition to as husband and wife - it’s confusing and awkward and they both come out the other side of the endeavor a little more breathless and a lot more comfortable around each other.

Their subsequent times - second, third, fifth - together are more fun, carefree, and Emma can’t help but laugh and smile more often than she ever thought she might while engaging in supposedly laborious duties.

(Killian hardly makes it laborious. It’s enjoyable and, if she could, Emma would keep him in bed all day, her willing hostage.)

“You know the first time we met?” Emma murmurs into his chest when they finally settle down, the sweat on their bodies drying. “Down by the docks?”

Killian hums and gives a single nod. “The best afternoon walk I’ve ever taken in my life. It’s where you became my Swan.”

Giggling, she buries her nose further into her husband’s body. “Yes, that one.” She breathes deeply, getting a hint of his brother’s ocean and the dust of the workhouse. “I was dancing to the allegro to Swan Lake.”

He makes a noise of confusion and satisfaction. “I don’t think I quite know what _Swan Lake_ ’s about,” Killian finally says, “though I will admit that it’s a happy coincidence.”

“One day, we’ll go and see it,” she sighs, “see the real thing put on by the Russian ballet. Next time they come to town.”

“Emma, my love, the ballet is quite expensive.”

She shrugs and buries herself into his warmth. “I’ll find a way.”

“I trust that you will,” he mutters into her hair. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve yet to see you fail.”

Killian’s lips on her are the last thing she coherently remembers before falling asleep, and it’s the first memory she has when she wakes up the next morning, smile soft as the sun peeking through the windows. Different from all the mornings she’s woken up next to him, Emma burrows deeper into his shirtless embrace, relishing in the lethargic warmth his body gives off. She’s still naked beneath the bedclothes and her hair is a riot.

 

But she’s happy.

 

With a deep inhale through his nose, Emma hears Killian’s consciousness enter his body. His arm tightens around her shoulders and his hand travels the span of his stomach until he meets her bare hip. His voice is deep and groggy when he mumbles, “What a pleasant change to wake to.”

 

Emma hums in contentment. “A good pleasant change?” she asks.

 

This time, Killian emits a hum low in his throat, pushing her onto her back and coming to hover over her, all but blocking out the sun.

 

(What she can see of the light halos the outline of his body, shadowing the muscles that hold him up above her and lightening the stray wisps of hair that stick up from his head. He’s gorgeous and all hers.)

 

(Her heart flames up like her cheeks did when Killian bit at her collarbone last night. She soared so many times last night and still feels like she’s flying on the morning after. It’s better than any feeling any of her other suitors - Neal included - sparked in her.

 

She’s just beginning to wonder if this is what love feels like.)

 

“My Swan, you are most good I’ve ever had in my life.”

 

The sigh she releases is a double-edged sword: Killian’s nose skims the side of her neck, awakening the nerves along the tender skin, but she begrudgingly speaks the thought she’s sure they’re both loathe to admit. “Ruby was right.”

 

“No,” he corrects her, lips coming up to press against hers. “We were right.” He kisses her a little longer, letting her hands come up to cradle his chin before adding, “But let’s never mention how she instigated it. A smug Ruby is not a good Ruby.”

 

With the consummation of their marriage - on their own terms after a time getting to know each other and conquering their fears - their relationship changes for the better, just as her sister-in-law advised. Their affection is easier, more familiar and congruent with Emma’s perception of married people. She actively seeks out his hand beneath the table at meals and on their walks back from the workhouse. Killian almost never enters a room without greeting her with a kiss to the cheek.

 

It’s in this newfound comfort, where she wakes even happier every morning and finds herself smiling so much that it hurts more to frown, that Emma discovers the courage to finally - _finally_ \- bring the discussion of taking Henry into their home on the table.

 

Killian’s response is not at all what she expected.

 

“No,” Killian sternly states. “Absolutely not.”

“Be reasonable, Killian,” Emma chides her husband. “It’s not like I haven’t told you of him before.”

 

He scoffs. “You haven’t told me of him before.”

 

“Killian, I told you when we first met,” she reminds him. “I’ve been trying to tell you about him ever since we married.” Heaving a gruff sigh, Emma places her hands on her hips. “I told you there was a boy in a workhouse who I intended on adopting. He’s the entire reason we got married.”

 

He chuckles. “So you’re saying my intelligent wit, incredible charm, and handsome looks had nothing to do with it?”

 

Emma glares at him, empty as it may be. He does this sometimes - tries to distract her, tries to get her to stroke that ego of his. It’s deflated quite a bit in their time together, but every once in awhile, that saucy philanderer who agreed to marry her on a whim reappears. Those are some of her most treasured and favorite times to be around Killian.

 

But not this time.

 

“The boy is an orphan, Killian,” she huffs. “He needs a _family_ and we can give him that. I’ve promised him that.” Her husband, still reading his book on the lounge, seems unmoved by her reasoning. “I don’t even know if he’s been outside of the building in his entire life.”

“And that is how the world works, darling.”

“Isn’t that the problem?” When he once again doesn’t look up from the novel, merely turns the page, Emma snaps her fingers to get his attention. He finally gazes at her. “Killian, we wouldn’t be married if it weren’t for how the world works.”

“And aren’t you content on that subject matter?”

Emma flops ungracefully on to the ottoman at his feet, her skirts ballooning and pooling around her. Closing his book and setting it on his lap, Killian gives her a sarcastic wink, causing her to roll her eyes.

“Killian, that is not the question at hand.”

“Yet, love, my answer remains the same.” He leans forward, adding emphasis to his next words. “Think on it: if we take in one workhouse child, we’ll have to take them all.”

She feels a weird expression cross her face, somewhere in between disgust and confusion. “What’s wrong with that?” Emma asks. “Killian, he’s just a boy.”

“A child, Emma, _a child_.” The stress he places on the last two words is unavoidable. “You can’t take a child in willy-nilly. A child is a great responsibility.”

“You say that like I have no idea,” Emma gripes. “Not that I have to truly prove anything, but I’ve managed making this place our home. Hiring help, choosing decorations, everything.” Standing from the ottoman, she moves to sit on the edge of the lounge, next to Killian’s knees. “I’ve been told my entire life the only thing I’m good for marriage and motherhood. You and I both know I’m better than that.”

Cocking his head to the side, Killian replies, “Then I’m not quite what we’re discussing at the moment.”

Emma sighs, resting her hand on his knee and giving it a squeeze. “Already my parents are asking for grandchildren. Liam the same. But I’m not ready for that.” She inhales and glances down at her hand on his knee, her wedding band standing out against the dark color of his pants. “I’m not ready to bear a child,” she says quietly, “but I can’t let my maternal instinct wither simply because he’s not of my own blood.” Her eyes finds his blue ones when they rise. “Consider it a little bit like practice. No one we’re familiar with has children to play with or dote on.”

“Emma.” She loves the way Killian says her name, even when he’s chiding her like this. “Henry’s is a human, not a dress. You can’t return him. If you take the lad out of the workhouse, he’s your son.”

“Our son,” she automatically corrects him. And then Emma sighs. “Just meet the boy, just once. And then you can pass judgement.”

“And you’ll never speak of him again?”

The look on her face begs the answer he isn’t looking for. “You know I can’t do that.”

Killian chuckles once before leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “I know.” He kisses her other cheek. “You’ll fight for what you want and believe in until the bitter end.”

This time, Emma hums. “It’s why you love me,” she murmurs, taking initiative and pressing her lips to Killian’s. “I’ll call on you tomorrow at the workhouse and you can meet him with me.”

0000

She can tell from the first time her husband’s eyes fall on Henry that he’s lost to him, heart and soul, just as she was. Emma’s pulled Henry away from the children's lackluster lesson and into Killian’s office. The boy’s eyes are widen with fright - “Emma, I didn’t do it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t do it.”

Only after her kind cajoling and insistence that he isn’t in trouble does Henry stop digging his heels into the dirty hallways. Still, he’s hesitant until the moment Emma escorts him through the door, his small hand still grasping hers tightly.

The sound of the door hinges creaking alert Killian to their entrance. “Hello there, darling,” he greets her. And then he spots Henry, his mop of brunet hair cowering around his wife’s knees. Killian’s eyes are alight with curiosity. “And who have you brought with you?”

“Killian, this is Henry.” Her hand comes to rest on the back of the boy’s head, then squats down to his level. “Henry, can you say hello to Killian?” A moment passes. Henry shakes his head and buries his face in Emma’s shoulder. She laughs lightly before sparing a glance at Killian, whose eyes are trained on Henry. His smile is soft, one she recalls seeing on his face as they first came to really know one another.

(She’s winning him over, she can feel it.)

“Don’t be shy, lad,” Killian coaxes. He stands, comes around to the front of his desk, and crouches down on the other side of Henry. He stands close, but doesn’t hazard to touch him, unlike his wife, who lifts the boy on to her hip.

Only Henry hides himself deeper in Emma’s hold.

“He only knows you as the foreman,” she explains, soothing the child in her arms. “I told him you were nice, but I don’t think he believes me.”

Killian nods, straightening up. There’s a twinkle in his eye, one that means her husband’s got something up her sleeve. Previous experience has taught her to be wary of that look.

(She can’t help herself for pulling Henry a little closer to her chest. Maternal instinct and all that.)

“I like to think I’m nice, dear.” His voice is gentle. It’s not a tone she’s ever heard from him, meant only for the skittish.

 

(Unsurprisingly, it fits Killian well. She’s beginning to wonder if nothing makes her husband look bad.)

 

“I’m only mean in the stories they tell.” Henry perks up at the word _stories_ **and Killian notices. His blue eyes flit to hers for a second, but return to Henry in a wink. “Do you like stories, Henry?” Cautiously, the child nods, encouraging Killian. “Would you like to hear a story right now?”**

The boy nods more enthusiastically this time. Settling Henry in her lap, Emma sits down in front of Killian’s desk while her husband kneels before them on the ground and starts.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway land…”

(Emma sneaks Henry home one night not too long afterward, tucked beneath her skirts. They pretend it’s a game: “Stay as close to my legs as you can. And remember: not a peep, okay?”

It’s just an experiment. Killian’s cross, absolutely.

“Do you understand how much trouble I could get in because of this?!”

“Keep your voice down, Killian, Henry’s in the next room!”

“HE SHOULDN’T BE IN THE HOUSE AT ALL.”)

(But the boy hears them fighting and wanders into Killian’s study with sleep crusted in his eyes, effectively halting their argument.

“Killian,” he slurs tiredly, “can you tell me a story?”

It's one shared glance between adults before Killian relents. He goes to the door and scoops the lad up. “Of course, my boy,” he happily concurs. “But just one more and then you must be off to Dreamland.”)

Story time becomes a nightly occurrence a matter of weeks later. Neither of them have the capacity to deny their son anything.

The most amusing story times are the ones where Henry tells the story, all tucked in beneath the covers, only his head sticking out. The tales are almost always some deviation or melange of ones he’s been told on a nightly basis.

“And the pirate stabs the dragon in the belly and the queen is very happy and loves him!”

“Is that so?” Emma asks, not entirely feigning her interest.  She risks a glance up to Killian’s eyes. He winks at her before inquiring if that’s how this story ends.

“No, not yet!” he insists. He puffs his little chest up under the blanket and a satisfied smile appears on his face. “The end,” he declares triumphantly. “Now the story’s finished.

(He’s always smiling, that little boy. Through all he’s been through in his short life, there’s never been a moment since Emma entered into it that he hasn’t been hopeful and grinning.)

(She mentions it to Killian one night as they retire to bed, shutting the door on a sleeping Henry.

“Quite the small gigglemug, isn’t her?” he jokes.

The name sticks.)

As they find out soon after Killian meets Henry for the first time, Emma learns the process of adopting a child from the workhouse.

“Technically, they’re wards of the state,” Killian explains, flipping through the mounds of papers at his disposal in front of him. It’s after dinner in his study: he’s sieving through copies of legislation Robin found for him and Emma herself has a large book of the law cradled between her thighs. “Which, in theory, works in our favor.”

(The book in her lap is one of no less than 25 that Killian’s brought home from his extensive library in his office in the last three days alone. She remembers noticing the wide variety on her first visit to the workhouse, but in no way did she imagine how many of those beautifully bound books would end up in her home, let alone in her lap, in an attempt to bring home a 7-year-old boy.)

“I should think that with the amount of children in all the workhouses throughout the country,” she says, turning the page carefully in her search for anything that might aid their case, “entrusting the care of one boy to people who care about him would be unburdening them, no matter how small.”

“One would believe that to be so,” he grumbles, “but it doesn’t seem to be the case.”

Setting the tome aside, Emma stands and stretches, reaching high and going up on her tiptoes. “What is the case then, Jones?” she asks while walking behind his desk next to him.

His finger runs beneath one underlined phrase of Robin’s script. “Since they’re in workhouses to pay off their parents’ debts or because they were found on the streets, any child submitted to the workhouses are treated the same as adults until age 16 for girls and 13 for boys, only for less pay.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You pay the children?”

“I do,” Killian says, “but their rates are much cheaper than their adult counterparts.”

“When do the children get the money?”

“Well, if they came in with a parent or family member, then it goes toward their freedom first.” He says all of this so casually, scanning Robin’s notes and his own like they’re discussing the weather or who to invite to their next dinner party, not the lives and independence of other humans. “The children like Henry are awarded the amount they earned as children when they come of age.”

“And it goes toward their release and such, correct?” Emma ensures.

Her husband nods. “Usually. Sometimes it goes toward their medical expenses.” It takes a moment for her to realize he has no intention of adding to such a comment. She coughs, drawing his attention for the papers in front of him, and cocks an eyebrow. “Up in the north, the children are hired to fill the positions adults can’t,” Killian explains.

“Such as…?”

“Customarily chimney sweeps for the lads, or putters and trappers in the mines.” Her expression must contort into something fearful or disgusted, for Killian asks, “What’s that face for?” almost immediately.

“Killian, do you know how dangerous those jobs are?!”

He shrugs and returns to the scribbles before him. “Someone has to do them, Swan,” he says logically. “The children are the perfect size for the mines. They’re small enough to hold the light and not get in the way.”

“Do you hear the words you’re saying?” Her mouth is all but to the floor. Emma can’t actually fathom that her husband - her Killian, who agreed to marry her before they even knew each other - would agree with these sorts of practices. She gestures wildly in no particular direction. “Killian, that could be our son in the mines.”

“But it’s not.” Realizing he’s not going to get any further in his research until this topic is exhausted, Killian looks up from his desktop. His arms fold over one another and he leans forward, closer to his frantic wife. “I know for a fact our son is asleep in his bed at the workhouse. I checked on the children before coming home to my exquisite wife.”

Emma jabs at him in accusation. “Do not try and change the subject,” she says sternly. Then, sighing, she comes to his side. “The more I learn about the conditions, the sooner I want Henry safe with us.”

Killian reaches for her hand and gives it a soothing squeeze. “I know, love,” he commiserates. “Soon. Once we figure out the specifics, we will begin the process post-haste.”

Staring him down, Emma asks, “And you’ll do what you can to expedite the process?”

“Everything I can, if not more,” he assures her, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

But when Killian comes returns home one evening, looking downtrodden beyond belief, Emma’s heart stops. She’s upstairs reading in their bedroom before the dinner bell. He’s a little early, if the shining rays of sunlight through the window next to her are any indication. She can hear the shuffle of his shoes on the wooden floor outside the door.

Placing her book on the side table, Emma stands quickly and dusts her skirt off. Killian’s jacket is halfway off before he’s even made it entirely through the room’s entry.

“Killian?” she asks hesitantly. “Killian, what’s wrong?”

He says something mumbled yet coherent, she’s sure, but the words don’t process in her mind after she hears Henry’s name. The blood drains from her face, past her heart, and assuredly leaks from beneath her toenails on to the floor beneath her.

“What happened?” He doesn’t answer her: he keeps walking until he disappears into the dressing room. Swift to follow him, Emma catches him changing his shirt while simultaneously shucking his shoes.

“Killian, what happened to Henry? Is he okay?” she repeats. When Killian still doesn’t respond, she doesn’t hesitate to step up to him. Taking him by the arms, Emma physically stops him mid-disrobing. She shakes him bodily. Her voice shakes. “Dear God, please tell me he’s okay.”

A heavy object hits the floor behind her, scaring the wits from her already tense body. When she turns around to see what it was, she nearly faints on the spot. A mere yard from her, on all fours, Henry bashfully looks up from the floor.

“Oh thank the Lord.” Emma hurries forward and scoops Henry into her arms. “You frightened the dickens out of me, Henry.” He wraps his arms around her neck and lays his head on her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Killian said I live here now,” he says gaily, his fingers getting caught in her hair. “He said I could come home now.”

Eyes wide with shock, she looks between Henry on her hip and Killian at her side, the latter still partially undressed. “Really?” she unwillingly asks. Her husband’s face is so bright she nearly has to squint to see how delighted he is. “Is that true, Killian?”

He comes even closer, close enough to wrap an arm around her waist. “It seems we did too much research,” Killian tells her. His hand comes to rest on Henry’s back, his thumb scoring across it. “I went to the governing council this morning and they said that, so long as I made sure to mark their permanent absence, I could take as many children as I cared to.”

She felt unsure and slightly scared. “Are you sure?” Killian nods happily. Emma looks at Henry, at how he’s half asleep in her arms. He’s done this before, when they’ve snuck him out of the workhouse for the night. He’ll get so caught up in the stories Killian regales him with or the little games he and Emma partake in that the Sandman sneaks up on him. “Henry, you want to live here now? Instead of the workhouse?”

“This is home,” the boy murmurs simply. “I’m gonna live here with my family.” Big brown eyes made heavy with sleep threaten to overcome him, but Henry summons enough energy to look her in the eye and ask, “That’s still fine, right?”

After everything - the research, their marriage, all of it - Emma’s heart feels whole. “Of course, Henry,” she says quietly, leaning into Killian’s shoulder. “Welcome home.”

0000

Just like marriage, settling into parenthood is surprising simple in Emma’s experience. Some barriers between Henry and his newly-titled parents are easily broken: that first official night of theirs, he forgoes sleeping in what Killian and Emma have affectionately been calling Henry’s room to snuggle between the two of them. Emma wakes the next morning with Henry caddywompus across her stomach.

(She lucked out: their son’s feet are mere inches from Killian’s face.)

Others, though, are more difficult to smash. The concept of eating whenever he wants whatever they have in the kitchen is so foreign to Henry. The first time Booth tries to sneak him a biscuit before dinner, the boy comes running to Emma in tears, fearful that Killian or one of the other guardians will somehow find out and punish him for insubordination.

(Assuaging his emotions is almost as taxing on Emma as it is for Henry to have them. She manages to stay strong until bed - comforting all through dinner and story time and staying at his side sans Killian until he’s off to Dreamland - when she collapses into her husband’s waiting arms, quietly sobbing.)

Killian’s learning to keep his work away from home. Emma’s learning that raising Henry is not at all like volunteering at the workhouse. And Henry - well, he’s taking in what little sun London has to offer. But together, the three of them - with the occasional help from Booth and Ella the maid - are figuring out the whole family ordeal.

(The two servants take to Henry immediately. A relatively young man himself, Booth relishes at the chance of company while he does his chores and Emma’s quite sure Henry idolizes Booth, second only to she and Killian. And Ella adores the boy, sometimes taking him down to the market or bringing her daughter to the house to play with him.)

They’ve not really announced to anybody - family or otherwise - that she and Killian have taken in a child. The three of them are so focused on figuring out their new dynamics that they’ve forgotten anyone outside of their townhome. So when Ruby comes to call one afternoon and finds a little boy tailing Booth like a little duckling, it’s only natural that she greets Emma with a befuddled look.

“Good afternoon, Ruby,” she addresses her sister-in-law, shutting the book in her hands. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Emma, you are aware there’s a little urchin following Booth around downstairs, aren’t you?” she asks, as tactful as ever.

Sighing, Emma stands from the parlor chair and walks over to the open doorway. “Do you expect to stay awhile? Should I ask for tea?”

“That would be delightful,” Ruby asserts, “but that doesn’t at all answer my question.”

“Give me a moment.” Luckily enough, Booth is dusting at the top of the stairs, his small shadow mimicking his movements behind him. “Booth, would you mind going downstairs and bringing up some tea for Ruby and I?”

The manservant inclines his head regally. “Of course, milady.” Even two levels down, Emma can hear Henry’s little giggle and repeated agreement, copying truly everything Booth does. “Come along, Henry. Your mum’s got company to entertain.”

“Actually,” she interrupts Booth, “Henry, if you could come down here, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

With a spirited farewell, Henry scampers down the stairs and into Emma’s waiting hold. Brushing the hair back from his eyes, she gently nudges him into the parlor. “Henry, this is Killian’s sister-in-law, Ruby. She’s married to Papa’s brother.” Emma glances up and watches her friend’s eyes go wide at the phrasing. “Ruby, this is our son, Henry.”

The boy looks up at her with wondering eyes first. Emma nods, hoping that the look on her face is one of encouragement, and pushes him forward. Stumbling a bit over his own feet, Henry makes his way across the parlor, his hand outstretched. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ruby.”

Emma watches Ruby’s face soften immensely. She takes Henry’s hand and gives it a polite shake. “Oh, honey, you can call me Auntie Ruby,” she offers. “Where’d you come from, sweetheart?”

“Ruby!” Emma scolds, but it doesn’t stop Henry from answering.

“The workhouse,” he says simply. And then he turns around and smiles back at her. “Emma came and worked there and she loved me, so she asked Killian if I could live with them and now I do.” He rubs at his nose before walking back up to her. “Emma, can I go find Booth now? He said he was going outside soon to check the gardens.”

“Do you want tea? Or a snack?” Henry shakes his head. She pats him lightly on the head, running her fingers through his hair. “Okay. Give me a hug and you can go find Booth.” He does, squeezing his arms tightly around her waist. “Go on. Don’t you two get in Ella’s way.” His shout of “Yes, Emma!” echoes off the walls.

“Your son?”

Sighing, Emma takes a seat next to Ruby. “I told you before,” she reminds her friend, “I told you I intended on adopting Henry.”

“I remember that.” A knock sounds on the parlor door just before Booth comes in, tray of tea and biscuits in hand. The ladies both thank him. Ruby’s spinning sugar into her tea when she adds, “I just don’t recall you saying you had.”

Emma shrugs and takes a sip from her cup. “It’s still rather recent.”

“Have you told anyone or did you just manage to miss me in your heraldings?”

“I believe you’re the first to know,” she answers after a moment. She stares down into her tea, thinking about who knows of Henry. “I don’t even think I’ve told my parents.”

Ruby chuckles. “You should do that promptly.”

“I’ll send word tomorrow or something.” Emma waves the concern away for now, though she does make a mental note to write her parents as soon as Ruby leaves. “You’re here and it would be rude to ignore you,” she reasons aloud. “So, how have you been?”

“Well enough.” She sighs wistfully, looking off in the direction Henry scurried. “I don’t know.”

Blowing on her tea, pushing the small wafts of steam up and out of her way, Emma asks, “What ails you, dear Ruby?”

The brunette shrugs. “I’m beginning to think I’ve done something wrong in my life,” she mutters, sinking further into her chair ungracefully. “I love Liam with all my heart, but after our discussion after dinner at Woodlands and your struggles in bringing Henry home, I’m…”

Emma smiles knowingly into her cup. “You want a child of your own.”

Ruby nervously huffs.  “Is it that obvious?” she asks aloud. 

With a shrug, Emma responds, “Call it mother’s intuition.”

Her friend scoffs and takes a drink of her tea. “You’ve only been a mother for a little while. I hardly believe it’s a viable excuse.” Staring down into the dark liquid, Ruby aimlessly stirs it around. “I just know that Liam would be a wonderful father.”

“He will be,” Emma reassures her, “just like you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“But how do you know?” The question is asked on a groan, Ruby’s face downturning.

She understands the difficulties her friend might be having. They’re the same uncertainties that crossed her own mind when first contemplating her marriage to Killian.

 

_You’ll be a wonderful wife and mother, you’ll be happy._

 

_But how do you know?_

 

“I know you.” Emma leans forward, reaching as far as she can to take Ruby’s hand in hers. “And I know Liam will be a great father because Killian is a great father and he could only have learned that from one person.” She feels her face relax as she reflects on her boys. “You should see him with Henry,” she says almost offhandedly. “It’s adorable. At first, Henry was so scared of him. Some times he came running to me in tears when Killian was cross with him because he was afraid of being beaten like some of the other children were in the workhouse. But now he begs him for bedtime stories every night and they roll around outside and Henry’s so excited about life now that he’s home.”

 

A sly, wide smile spreads across Ruby’s lips, stretching up and illuminating a light of mirth in her eyes. “Go ahead, Emma,” she prods, causing Emma to redden. “Say the words.”

 

“What words?” she asks. Her cheeks are aflame, sprouting a nervous sweat to form on her palms. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Love, Emma.” Ruby says it like it’s the most obvious thing she’s come across all week: plainer than the nails on her fingers or the tea in her cup. “You love Killian.”

 

“Why, I…” She doesn’t mean to trail off, get lost in her own world of thoughts. But there’s really no proper response, or at least not one she can think of. Her heart is full. She is happy. When she tries to think of the last time she reached this level of joy, there is nothing to compare it to. The closest Emma can think of is the early days of her relationship with Neal.

 

(The younger Mr. Cassidy hasn’t crossed her mind in so long. His place and the heartbreak he left her with have been mercifully filled with eyes as blue as sapphires and shaggy brown hair that falls over the brow.)

 

The most all-encompassing and concise answer Emma can conjure is, “Huh,” which sends Ruby into a fit of laughter.

 

“It was the same thing with me,” she confides in her. “I didn’t realize I loved Liam until my grandmother told me.” Shrugging nonchalantly, Ruby takes another sip of tea. “She must have spoken to him as well, because he told me a couple nights later and I felt like I was soaring.”

 

Emma lets her sister-in-law’s words hang in the air, pondering on the feeling that flooded her body when she’s told her husband just how much she loves him. How her day isn’t complete until she hears his hearty laugh or how her heart beats faster when Henry wraps his arm around his neck and his legs around his hips. How he wraps himself around her body in the dark of the too early morning or how the world seems bright now that he’s part of the center of hers.

 

But she can’t recall it.

 

“I haven’t told him,” she mumbles. Grabbing her friend’s hand, she grips it tightly. “Ruby, I haven’t told Killian I love him.”

 

For her part, Ruby doesn’t seem all too surprised or affected. “I’m sure he knows.”

 

“But knowing it, believing it, and hearing it are all very different.” It takes her all of a moment to decide, “I need to tell him.” Standing quickly, Emma carelessly sets her tea cup and saucer on the tap, which wobbles dangerously before it settles. The small tea tray has a bell on it, and Emma rings it. The sound echoes through the house, signalling her need for Booth. “My deepest apologies, Ruby, I have to go. I’ve got to see my husband.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Ruby says in understanding. Booth arrives at the entryway of the parlor, confused expression on his face. Emma asks him to bring the carriage around as swiftly as possible.

 

“I’ve got to get the workhouse as soon as I can.”

 

“Is something the matter, milady?” the manservant asks.

 

“No, nothing at all. Everything is wonderful,” Emma assures him breathlessly. Her thoughts have gone from casual calling to rapidfire and she isn’t at all sure what to say or do in the moment, but she does figure out a few things rather quickly: she needs to tell Killian she loves him, meaning she needs to get to the workhouse where he is.

 

And Henry. “Oh, not that you aren’t already doing so, but can you keep an eye on Henry while I’m gone? I shouldn’t be too long,” she requests, just as the manservant is heading out of the room.

 

“Very well,” Booth bids. His glance at Ruby reminds Emma that she is not alone in the room, despite what her memory serves her. “And what of you, Mrs. Jones? Would you like me to arrange transportation for you?”

 

“I’ll see myself out just after I finish my tea,” she says. With a stout bow, the butler runs off to bring the carriage around. Ruby, on the other hand, sips at her tea. “Why don’t Liam and I come by for dinner this evening?” she suggests. “He can meet Henry and we can celebrate this little revelation.”

 

“That sounds delightful.” It’s more of the inner hostess in Emma that listens and agrees to the plan her sister-in-law puts forward. She’s too busy cataloging her look, debating whether or not she needs to change. Deciding she’s fine as is, Emma leans and kisses Ruby on cheek in farewell. “I shall see you later tonight, then.”

 

“Bye, Emma,” Ruby calls from her chair. “Send my love to little brother.”

 

Emma bites on her lip the entire ride from their townhome to the workhouse, her fingers worrying each other in her lap. She doesn’t wait for the driver to come to a complete stop before she barrels past the carriage door and into the dark workhouse. Despite her weekly volunteering and being married to the guardian, Emma’s still got to mark her visit at the front desk with Daniel. The lad’s gawky at best, but the somewhat sweet disposition he has usually makes her smile.

 

“Afternoon, Lady Jones,” he greets her kindly. “What can I do for you today?”

 

“I need to see my husband. Now.”

 

“I don’t know - ” His thought is interrupted by Robin’s appearance next to him. The men have a hushed conversation, in which Emma overhears the phrase ‘men’s quarters’ and ‘throw.’

 

Seemingly unaware of her presence, Emma clears her throat, drawing Robin’s attention to her. “Oh, pardon me, Emma. I didn’t see you there.”

 

“That’s quite all right, Robin.”

 

(It’s neither the time nor the place to get frustrated with her husband’s friend and second-in-command. She’s arrived unannounced, but cripes, can he not see how desperate and flustered she is right now?)

 

(She’s afraid of losing her confidence. That she’ll get in front of Killian and profess nothing but their dinner plans with his brother. Or perhaps that she might burst from all the happiness she confides within her body.)

 

“I’m here to see Killian,” she says, as if she would be here on her day off for any other reason. “Is he in his office?”

 

Robin glances at Daniel for a moment in hesitation before parsing out, “Well, no, not exactly.”

 

(Women aren’t as unintelligible as men believe them to be. Killian is in charge of this entire building - the machines, the upkeep, the people working within its’ walls. If anything went wrong - say, something being thrown about in the men’s quarters - he would be first on the scene to handle it personally.)

 

(The country is being successfully run by one of the most revolutionary women of all time and her male subjects still believe their wives should run their homes.)

 

“I thought not,” Emma drawls. She nods her head curtly and begins to walk further into the workhouse. “Thank you, Robin, Daniel. Have a lovely evening.”

 

“No, Lady Jones!” Daniel shouts from behind his partition at the same time Robin yells, “Emma, wait!”

 

She knows exactly where the men’s quarters are: it’s the only part of the entire building she hasn’t intimately explored. Killian kept her far from it at all times, and now, she finally understands why. This part of the workhouse is worse - much worse - than she expected. The newspapers tell of the conditions: the close quarters, the darkness, the thickness of the air. But actually experiencing them, knowing that she relies on these torturous ways for the roof her husband keeps, the food her family eats breaks her heart.

 

Emma’s never been through the men’s section of the house - only the children’s and the women’s. The only reason she’s here in the first place is because Robin told her Killian wasn’t in his office. He was out keeping the men in check.

 

(“Emma, you really shouldn’t go there,” he’d insisted as he followed her down the hall. “I’m sure he’s nearly done with his task. Wait in his office and he’ll come by shortly.”

 

But Henry’s at home alone and he’s still shaky when it comes to being alone, even if he’s with Booth. Her chest hurts at the thought of anything going wrong, so she must make it a quick visit. Tell her husband she loves him and not to stay late, Liam and Ruby were coming to dinner, and get back to the house.)

 

She should’ve listened to Robin. The moment she entered, the entire room silenced. Quite the feat, considering that talking amongst workers was forbidden. Emma felt hundreds of pairs of eyes on her as she slowly but confidently made her way down the main aisle.

 

Her husband stands at the end of it, yelling unintelligible words. He’s got something in his hand - a whip or a belt, something thick - and he’s throwing it back and forth as it hits the man kneeling in front of him. The man’s back is bloody. It’s unsightly, but Emma perseveres forward. Killian will not let this beating distract him from her.

 

But then she’s distracted. Emma catches a glimpse of the punished and she stops cold in her tracks. He’s got the blue-grey eyes: the same ones that comforted her when she fell off her horse as a child, the ones that flared with anger when she uttered a false word, that greeted her every morning at the breakfast table.

 

She’s looking at her father’s eyes, but she knows that he’s at home with her mother, worrying over Henry and his place in their lives. Which means only one alternative.

 

Uncle James. Her husband is beating her uncle into a bloody shade of a man.

 

Her screech leaves her body without permission. Emma only realizes she’s made a sound because the crack of leather ceases. Two sets of blue eyes - both which she loves deeply - stare her down, but only one of them moves, grows larger as he moves closer.

Killian’s hand is strong and firm in hers, gently tugging her along through the assembly lines to his office. The force behind his movement is sharp and almost frantic. Her husband wants to get her away from the working poor, the world their marriage strived to keep her from.

He opens the door, pulls her in, and shuts the door. He pushes her against the door, effectively trapping her between his sturdy body and the wood at her back.

“You shouldn’t have come to find me,” Killian asserts, his voice gruff. “Some of those men haven’t seen a woman in years.”

“You should’ve told me my uncle was here,” she spits back. Her hands fall on his chest and Emma forces him back. “How could you not have told me? **”**

“I didn’t know he was your uncle!”

“Jones, he’s my father's twin brother! _Identical_ twin brother. Surely you’re not stupid.” Killian shrugs. She scolds. “Don’t _shrug_ at me. I just saw you manhandling my uncle.”

“He wasn’t following the rules.”

“And should I take that to mean that if I don’t follow the rules, you’ll beat me?” Emma counters. “I come down here to tell you I love you and that Liam and Ruby are coming over for dinner and I’m met with ‘ _He wasn’t following the rules’_?”

His soft and broken “You love me?” is lost in the rush of blood in her ears. A ton of bricks sink in her stomach as a thought crosses her mind. “Were you going to do that when I brought Henry home? Hurt me like you hurt James?” she asks.

“What? No!” He’s fervent in his answer, his head shaking back and forth. “I love Henry. I love our son. I love _you,_ darling _._ ”

“That wasn’t the question I asked,” Emma says. She draws herself to full height, still a good few inches shorter than Killian, but still hopes to intimidate him. “When I brought Henry home for the first time, did you want to hurt me? Did you want to discipline me like you did my uncle and I’m sure the countless other mistreated men and women in this place?” He’s silent, but that’s enough of a confirmation for her.

“I see.”

“Swan.” It’s quiet, the nickname she’s come to love so much. “Emma, my love-”

She makes a decision on the spot. “I think tonight might be the perfect night to introduce Henry to my parents,” Emma mutters absentmindedly. “He’ll like Woodlands. Lots of places to get lost in.”

“Liam and Ruby are coming to-”

“Then you can speak with them,” she cuts him off abruptly and harshly. “I need to visit my mother, Killian. You’ll understand.”

Backing up slowly, Emma drinks in the things she loves most about him: his bright eyes now dulled and clouded with confusion and tears; his height, meant to protect her from society but now intimidating beyond recognition; his unruly hair and his elfish ears and there is not a thing about this man that she doesn't love. But her family comes first and, for as long as he’s been away, her uncle is still blood.

Killian’s quiet when he asks, “When will you be coming home?” And it almost breaks her. Emma’s nearly at the door, walking in and out of the sun’s glaring rays, yet her husband’s yet to move more than an inch. He loves her so much, and she him, but the fact of the matter is that Killian was beating her uncle. He’s the foreman of a workhouse, the workhouse she adopted their son from.

He’s the epitome of what sort of society she’s been against since being presented in society.

He’s the foolish solution to bringing Henry into her life.

He’s her world, currently falling to pieces.

“I don’t know, Killian,” she says, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I really don’t know.”

The hardest thing to do in her life is turn around and leave his office. She’s had her family and freedom taken, but all for the sake of her son’s well-being and safety. This is for hers.

0000

She finds it serendipitous: the place she runs to when her husband betrays her trust is the very place they first met. Much has changed since Emma’s last visit to her warehouse stage.

She knows she shouldn’t be here - she has to go home and collect Henry before Killian does - but her mind’s running a million miles a second. She just needs some time to be alone and process what happened in the workhouse office this afternoon.

She’s improperly dressed and way out of practice, but the moment she finds a tune - something vaguely along the lines of Mozart or one of those classical fathers - the movements come easily. Emma twirls, relishing in the swish of her skirts flying around her hips, letting it wash away her troubles.

At least for now.

Maybe a total of an hour passes, where she jumps and pliees over fallen supports, completely drenching herself in sweat. Emma slowly comes to reality as her breath returns to normal. Brushing back the wisps of hair that’d fallen free, she straightens her dress.

“One breath,” she mutters to herself. “One breath, five seconds, and then you go get Henry.”

When she opens the front door, she’s already shouting for Booth. The servant appears at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, milady?” he asks.

“Where’s Henry?”

“He’s in his room, milady, reading from the Brothers Grimm.” He comes around the railing and takes a few steps down the stairs. “Is something wrong, Emma?”

(Proprietary screams that she correct him. Anger lets it pass.)

With a flippant wave of her hand, Emma says, “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Booth. Tell Henry we’re going to Woodlands. Help him pack essentials.”

“How long are you going for, milady?”

She hasn’t considered that. She looks down at the ground, the dark marble floors providing no answer. “I don’t know.”

“Should I prepare a trunk for you and Mr. Jones?”

That’s the question of the moment indeed, save that she certainly knows the answer to this query, no hesitation needed. “I’ll be up shortly to pack my own trunk,” she tells the manservant, standing tall. “Mr. Jones won’t be needing a trunk at the moment.”

“And what of the dinner tonight with the other Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”

Moaning and rubbing her forehead to ease the ache she can feel growing there, Emma says, “I’ll go downstairs and tell Ella that we’re leaving, but Mr. Jones will have to make the ultimate decision when he comes home.” She closes her eyes, straightens her spine, and opens them to grimace at Booth. “Now, go help Henry.”

Booth inclines his head to her. “I’ll get right on it, milady.”

“Thank you, Booth.” Emma watches the servant mount the stairs and set down the corridor toward her son’s room. She stands in the entry hall, calling out to the calming sense that always occupies her when home. “One breath, five seconds.” And then she heads to the kitchen to update Ella about dinner.

Twenty minutes later, the carriage is loaded up with two trunks – a small one the size of Henry for him and the smallest of hers she could find on such short notice – and Emma is having trouble getting Henry out of the house. He’s clinging to the railing on the portico, sitting petulantly on the steps.

“Is Killian going to come to Woodlands for dinner?” is his latest question in a long line of inquires all on the same subject: when is Killian coming home?

“I don’t think so, Henry,” Emma quietly tells him. Crouching down to his level, mindful of the ends of her skirts, she adds, “We’re going to go meet your grandparents. That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

Completely ignoring her question, he asks, “Will Killian come in time for stories?”

Emma sighs. “Probably not, gigglemug.” The hair atop her head weighs much more today than it has in the past. She’s postulates that it has something to do with the weight on her shoulders as well. But she’s going to be as honest with Henry, just as her parents were honest with her. So Emma tells him the truth: “Killian and I got in a bit of a spat today, so we’re going to stay with my mother and father for a little while.”

In all his childlike curiosity, Henry asks, “How long?”

“Can I be frank with you?” He nods. “I don’t know. We’ve both got short tempers and we’ve never fought like this before.”

Canting his head to the side and resting it on the railing, Henry sighs. “Do you still love him?” he asks. “Charles said that when his mama and father fought, they didn’t love each other anymore.”

“Of course I love him,” Emma assures him, her voice soothing. She strokes his cheek with the back of her fingers and gently taps his chin. “The only person I love more than Killian is you.”

Henry seems to muse on her declaration, the first one so simply stated from her lips. Coming to a conclusion, he releases his grasp on the railing. Slowly, he all but falls into her open arms. “Okay,” he mumbles into her chest. Henry cuddles closer, wrapping his arms as far around her neck as he can reach at this awkward angle. “Will you tell me stories?”

“I will do my best,” she promises. Gently and carefully, Emma picks the boy up. His legs enclose her waist, nicely settling over her hips, and she waddles to the open door of the coach. He’s always heavier than she thinks him to be, but Emma knows he lived far too long in the workhouse to be properly nourished.

They occupy and distract themselves in the ride out of the city by trying to guess a character Henry’s been told about or about something outside in the distance. Henry’s got a smile on his face by the time they get to the end of Woodlands’ drive. His eyes go wide as saucers when he sees the actual house, sprawling the length of at least two blocks of townhomes in London.

“What do you think?” Emma asks, grinning broadly.

“It’s so big,” he whispers, his head nearly hanging out the window. He looks to her with those big brown eyes. “And it’s not a workhouse?”

“No, no, it’s not,” she verifies. “I grew up here.” She points to the muddle of trees off to the side. “My father and I used to go hunting in those woods.” She points to the stables. “My mother taught me how to shoot an arrow behind that little building.” Emma sighs longingly, recalling the childhood she left behind not all too long ago. “And we’re going to be here for a little while, so you can learn those things too.”

“Will you teach me?”

Uncertainly, Emma nods. “It’s been a long time,” she says. Henry’s face falls a fraction and she’ll do whatever, say whatever it takes to return him to that happy lad. “But I can teach you how to ride. That’s hard to forget.”

He nods and remains silent until the carriage comes to a total stop. Even then, he waits until Emma’s out and on the dirt drive to even stand from the cushion. She keeps reassuring him – “It’s okay, Henry, everyone’s going to love you, everything will be fine.” – until he’s out of the coach and his face is buried in her skirts around her knees.

“Emma!” Her mother’s at the door in an instant, Lance holding it open behind her. “Emma, what a lovely surprise!” She sees Mary Margaret lean over and mutter something into Lance’s ear before he nods and walks away.

“Hello, Mama,” Emma easily greets. “I apologize for not sending word ahead of time. This was unexpected for me as well.”

Her mother almost responds, her mouth open delicately to ask what happened, but she spots the mop of brown hair hovering just above Emma’s knees and impedes her words. The baroness slows her steps, as if approaching a deer to get a better shot. “And just who do we have down here?” she asks.

Hand coming to rest on the back of her son’s head, Emma proudly looks at her mother. “This is Henry,” she says quietly. “Henry, say hello to your grandmother.”

Mary Margaret stoops to his level, foregoing the good manners she was raised and lived in to comfort a child. “Hi there, Henry. There’s no need to be shy.” She sends him a hopeful smile.

Gradually, Henry’s eyes peek out from the folds of fabric he’s been hiding behind. He sticks out his small hand. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he mutters, the words grumbling up together and becoming unclear.

Chuckling lightly, her mother politely takes his hand and shakes it. “It’s okay, Henry. You don’t need to refer to me as ma’am.”

“Then what do I call you?” he asks inquisitively. He points at Emma, explaining, “Emma says I can call her Emma or Mama like you.”

The baroness glances up at Emma. She blushes: her mother knows her well enough to understand that she wants to give Henry the chance to fully accept the role as her son without forcing it on him. “Why don’t you call me Gramma?” Mary Margaret suggests. “Do you think that’s good for you?”

“Do you like it?”

“I like it quite fine.”

More confidently this time, Henry initiates the shake between himself and his grandmother. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Gramma.”

Heartily laughing, the baroness stands upright, although still looking down at Henry fondly. “You’re so polite, Henry,” she compliments, to which he, in true good form, thanks her.

(Good form. Killian would be so proud.)

Her brief stint of melancholy is broken when Henry’s fingers begin crawling up her palm, searching to interlock his fingers with hers. She’s confused at first: he’s already appears to have accepted her mother’s kindness. Then, off in the distance and shrinking, she sees the figure of a once-strapping man coming toward them at a light jog.

(Well, her mother insisted Papa was still handsome, regardless of his age.)

“It’s all right, that’s just my papa,” Emma whispers to the boy, squeezing his hand just as David arrives in front of them.

“What do we have here?” he asks a little breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss Emma on both cheeks instead of verbally greeting her.

“David,” Mary Margaret interjects, “this is our grandson, Henry.”

His hands come to rest on his waist. “Is it really?” Emma knows this voice: her father used it on her up until the day of her presentation to the Queen. It’s much friendlier, almost goofy in its intonation. It’s the voice of his inner child, ready to come out and play with Henry. “My, you’re much more handsome than I pictured,” he says. Just as her son did earlier, her father thrusts out his hand shake.

Henry cracks a smile and returns the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Once again, her mother interrupts. “You can call him Gramps,” she tells Henry. And then she confirms it wither her husband: “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Of course, of course.” Outwardly, he grimaces, probably because he doesn’t like the verbal reminder of his ever-increasing age, but inside, Emma knows he’s excited to finally have a little boy to get rough and tumble with.

“I was telling Henry about the horses while we rode up,” Emma leads, hoping her father will pick up the hint her tone is implying.

He proves he does shortly after, nodding and asking, “Would you like me to show you the horses before dinner, Henry?”

Nods enthusiastically. Starts to follow him, then looks to Emma. “Can I go?”

She’s afraid of being alone with her mother, but she knows it was bound to happen. Better get it over with. “Go ahead, gigglemug. Papa – I mean, Gramps will make sure you’re all cleaned up and presentable for dinner.”

Once the men are out of earshot, her mother threads her arm through Emma’s and starts to lead her back to the house. “I’m more than happy to have you under our roof again,” she starts, obviously building up to the question Emma knows both her parents are dying to ask. “And it’s wonderful to finally meet the grandson I’ve heard so much about,” her mother adds, “but what are you doing here? Without Killian, I may add?”

Emma sighs. “He and I got in a fight.” When her mother, usually so nosy and intrusive in her personal life, doesn’t say a word, Emma glances at her. Her eyes are wide and she merely nods, silently telling her to continue her tale. She sighs again. “I just need some time away from him.”

“What happened?” the baroness asks, jerking them to a stop in the parlor entryway. “Was he unfaithful? Emma, if that’s what happened, I will go into town and risk the punishment to shoot him.”

“No, nothing close to that.” Emma guides her mother to the couch and sits beside her. The more she thinks on the subject, her reaction is more appropriate for something of that caliber, not a conflict of interest and lack of communication. Yet she feels her reaction is fair.

Still, she starts telling the story to her mother. “I was down at the workhouse this afternoon and I was frustrated, Killian was keeping me waiting, so I…”

“Emma, I haven’t all afternoon,” the baroness interferes. “What happened?”

“Uncle James,” she chokes out. Her mother’s expression is as flabbergasted as Emma’s sure her was back in the dark of the workhouse. “I walked into the men’s quarters to find Killian physically punishing Uncle James. And he said he didn’t connect that we were related even though he looks exactly like Papa.”

“Oh.” For a long while, that’s all that she says. There must be a million thoughts going through her mind, just as there were in her brain when she found out. Critical thinking – the most prominent trait Emma inherited from her mother, besides her chin.

Lance comes along searching for them and announces dinner will be ready soon. Putting on her best façade, her mother nods and waves the butler off. With a sigh, Mary Margaret closes her eyes. “You can stay here for a little while,” she says, “but you shouldn’t be separated for too long.” Emma nods in understanding. Her mother pats her hand. “Especially with Christmas on the horizon. It’s your first together and you have Henry to worry about.”

“Don’t worry about us, Mama,” Emma declares, standing with her. “I can handle it.”

0000

Being away from her husband during Christmastime is probably the worst decision she’s ever made in her life. She _misses_ him. They had plans to find a tree and decorate it, the three of them, in the den. It was to sit in the great bay window, so all those passing by would be reminded of the joyous time of year, perhaps even inspire jealousy of the family residing within.

Instead, Emma reverts back to her schedule as a maiden: breakfast with her parents in the morning, tea with her mother in the afternoons, social visits whenever a friend desires so. It’s ingrained in her bones, making it easy for her go through the motions.

The one major difference between the months of similarity is Henry. Her shining light in such a time of darkness, Henry has taken to Woodlands as she expects any child would. He’s out of the city and in the open air, a far cry from the sunless labor halls of London’s workhouse.

Her mother adores Henry and her father is intrigued by the idea of a grandson. She’ll sneak him sweets between meals and he’ll leave the confines of his study to swordfight in the yard. The maids find him adorable. The stable boys are open to teaching him all about Mother Nature. Lance dotes on the boy, just as he doted on her, though he loathes to admit it.

But then the sun sets - golden and pink, beautiful over the rolling hills and treetops nearby - and he reverts back to the shy, careful child Emma first met. At dinner, he insists on sitting at her side and he all but clings to her legs when they dismiss and head up to bed.

“Memma,” Henry mumbles as she tucks him into bed.

(The longer he lives with them, the closer he gets to calling them Mama and Papa. Emma longs for the day it happens. She know she’ll turn into a blubbering mess, but Henry’s been her son in her heart for so long, a stabbing pain cuts her heart whenever he refers to her as anything other than his mother.)

Emma pats at the blankets over his body, sitting in the space between his small body and the edge of the mattress. “Yes?”

“Can Kill- Papa come tell me a bedtime story?”

She sighs because he’s asked this every night since they arrived at her parents’ house. “Henry, I told you. Killian’s not here.” Emma brushes her fingers over his cheek, his hair away from the frame of his face.

This time, Henry sighs and burrows his head deeper into his pillow. “I hope he might come tonight,” he whispers embarrassingly. “I thought he might come like a prince or a pirate and save us.”

“Do you need to be saved from something, Henry?” Emma asks. “I thought you liked it here.”

He nods, but it isn’t as enthusiastic as it would be during the daylight. “I miss him.”

Tears well at the corner of Emma’s eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. She must be strong for her son, whatever inner turmoil wracks her soul. Later, she thinks, on her own time.

(There hasn’t been one night since coming back to her childhood home that she hasn’t shed a tear for her husband. Killian’s not gone forever, she reminds herself at those time, as she does now, but he’s gone for now. She misses his warmth at her side and his masculinity in her presence.)

“I miss him too, my little gigglemug,” she mutters, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “I miss him too.”

0000

Christmas truly isn’t the same. It should be their first together as a married couple - their first Christmas ever - but Emma hasn’t heard a word from Killian in weeks. He knows she needs her space, and she is happy that he respects her decision. But _weeks_.

(Her mother is beginning to worry about society’s perception of her marriage. Simply from their sudden lack of appearances together, word had gotten out. The scandal of newlyweds separated shortly after taking in an orphaned boy could tarnish both family names if not handled carefully and judiciously.

“You’ll recall how Kathryn and Frederick’s marriage deteriorated? Nearly a year, he stayed with his mother!” her mother exclaims over tea one afternoon. “And they didn’t even have children at that point!”

“Wasn’t his mother ill?” Emma inquires, sipping at her cup of tea. “And aren’t they expecting their fourth child soon?”

Mary Margaret groans. “That is beside the point, my dearest daughter.”)

(People can say and think as they wish. As always, Emma could care less what others choose to believe.)

The holiday comes and goes with happiness and sadness in their own respects. Her parents are ecstatic to have her at home, but the air about her is off. Henry’s concept of Christmas is so lacking that everything they do - draping the tree, baking biscuits, even midnight mass - is amazing and awe-inspiring, but no gifts received can make up his father not being there to celebrate with them.

Then the new year comes rolling in a week later - the Lord’s year 1868 - and still no news. Emma’s beginning to worry. She remembers what happened when Milah returned to her husband, leaving Killian alone and heartbroken - how he turned to alcohol instead of those close to him for comfort. Emma hopes and prays that her husband doesn’t dare to travel down that path again or, at least if his will falters, Liam or Ruby will have the strength and smarts to tell her so.

(Because she does love him. Through lapses of poor judgement and stupidity on either of their parts, Killian Jones is the first person she thinks of in the morning, the last in the evening, and, second to Henry, occupies her thoughts the most in her waking hours.)

Normally, in this sort of situation, Emma would confide in her friends, most likely Elsa or Ruby. But with the former’s lack of expertise in the subjects of marriage and love and the latter’s possible conflict of interest, there’s only one other person she can look to.

“You and Papa make marriage look so simple,” she complains to her mother one evening, “but it’s not.”

The two of them are alone in Mary Margaret’s closet quarter after dinner. At a telling glance from his wife, the baron takes charge of Henry, chasing him around the lower floors until the boy’s ready for his nightly story and bed. In such an informal setting, Emma threw herself on the couch immediately entering the room, careless of her skirt flying up and over her face.

Her mother, on the other hand, has much more decorum as she sits down at her daughter's feet. “Emma honey, your father and I have fought like any other couple might, like you and Killian are.” Languidly, Emma rights herself and her skirts. When she’s settled, cantankerous expression on her face. A wistful smile spreads over the baroness’ lips. Leaning toward her daughter, she whispers conspiratorially, “I’ll have you know that Uncle James originally courted me.”

“What?!” The statement changes Emma’s mood drastically. Her eyes widen with interest and her body curves toward her mother, as if simply being closer can determine the truth.

“Indeed,” the baroness nods. “Your father was already engaged to a duchess. But when I came to visit and meet your grandparents, I mistook David for your uncle.” She silently chuckles with her palm upturned, a gesture of prominence. “The rest, they say, is history.”

“Are you sure you married Father and not James?” Emma asks, flabbergasted. “They are identical.”

Laughter wracks Mary Margaret’s body. She gently slaps her daughter’s hand where it dangles from the back of the couch. “That’s true,” she confesses, “but as we’ve aged, I can tell them apart more and more.”

After a moment of contemplation, Emma agrees. “Uncle James is more of a grump.”

“Exactly,” her mother stresses. “Besides, James is always a little happier alone. That’s why he was more than willing to break our courtship so your father and I could marry.” Quiet easily descends between the two. Mary Margaret raises her hand to cup Emma’s cheek in her palm, running her thumb over the fragile bones beneath. She drags the finger down to rest in the dimple at her chin. “You may have your father's eyes, but you’ve got my chin,” she comments offhandedly.

Emma chuckles, quickly turning into a casual mixture of a sigh and a sob. “Killian’s told me that before,” she says. “He’s told me it’s one of my most endearing features.”

“David used to tell me the same thing when we courted.” Sighing forlornly, Mary Margaret adds, “Every marriage has its tribulations, Emma. You and Killian will solve yours soon enough. Then you and Henry can go home.” She looks off into some other plane over the back of the couch. “Perhaps have another child or two.”

“Mother,” Emma says in a scolding tone, though her voice belies no heat.

Lifting her hands in the air beside her ears, the baroness puts on her most virtuous face. “The future remains unknown, but the possibilities are untold,” she reminds her daughter. And then she lowers one to pat Emma’s knee, buried beneath the askew skirt layers. “But nothing will change unless one of you two extends the olive branch.”

“He should,” Emma grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. She feels like a little girl again, pouting because she’s being falsely accused of knocking over a dish in the kitchen during a dinner party, especially when the other woman stares at her intently. “Mother, he tore apart our family.”

“Only as much as he put it together,” Mary Margaret reasons. “James did something wrong. He accepted his fate of punishment. Killian was merely doing as he was told. He was doing his job.” Scrunching up her nose in disbelief, Emma shrinks into the cushions on which she sits. “Emma, I thought I taught you better than this,” her mother scolds her. “When you and Graham got in that fight over a horse as children, what did I tell you?”

It’s forgotten deep in the memories of her childhood, behind the Christmases and the birthdays and all other life milestones, but Emma manages to recall her mother’s advice after a couple of seconds. “Be kind and kindness shall come back?” she guesses.

Nodding, her mother nudges at Emma’s elbow, getting her to stand from the couch. “Go to sleep, darling,” she asserts. “And tomorrow, go home. Talk to your husband. We’ll care for Henry until you come back.”

Not like she has many other options, Emma quietly nods, bids her mother goodnight, and leaves the closet for her childhood room and lonely, Killian-less bed.

0000

Emma stands in front of the door - her door, the entrance to her home with Killian - for far too long, doing nothing. Just standing. It’s been...she isn’t quite sure. Mentally, she tries to count the days, the hours. Close to a month, maybe more, she and Henry have been living back at Woodlands. Her parents love her and Henry is the apple of their eye, but she’s a mother and, more so at this time, a wife.

Summoning courage, Emma rapps her fingers on the wooden door. In the moment she waits for the door to open, she regrets the action immediately. Her thoughts file through in a messy mile-a-minute clump until Killian appears on the other side of the door. And then she’s speechless.

But he isn’t.

“Swan,” he breathes. He looks a fright - hair messier than usual, eyes red, skin pale - but the moment he sees her, Killian stumbles out the door and sweeps her into his arms. “Emma. My darling, darling Emma.”

His body is a solid comfort against her, his arms the sweetest embrace she’s ever had the pleasure of being in. Her husband doesn’t smell the best, reeks of rum and other dark drinks, only proving how hard this had affected him.

She hates how much she’s missed this. She’s got no one to blame but herself, she knows. Still…

Reluctantly pulling back from his hug, Emma stays silent. Killian’s eyes are still disbelieving. She nods toward the hall behind him, decorated with wooden panels, a questioning gesture.

He nods. “Of course, my dear. Come in, come in.”

Perhaps it’s because she hasn’t entered in quite some time, but the welcome hall seems darker and more ominous. This is the first look anybody gets of their home and it’s honestly frightening. Coupled with Killian’s appearance, the warm home they’d built together has crumbled into a haunted house.

Clearing his throat, Killian draws her attention. She turns around in the middle of the hall and looks at him.

“You look well,” she lies, folding her hands over her stomach.

He scoffs. “Not as well as you do, love.” Emma smiles softly: even after so much time separated, Killian’s building her up at his expense. She can’t really think of a proper and appropriate way to stroke that ego of his, encourage him rather than hurt him, because Killian’s asking, “How’s the lad?”

“Good.” She wants to offer more of a description - how Henry tries to stay up waiting for someone who’ll never come or how he hides in the library reading stories on rainy days - but all she can say is, “He misses you.”

“As I’ve missed him,” Killian sighs, rubbing his scalp behind his ear. Shyly, he adds, “And you.” He pauses, allowing both of them to gather their wits.

(She’s thankful for that, at least.)

(This is the most awkward conversation she’s had since Walsh slipped up at the dinner table that one night.)

“Emma,” he murmurs quietly, entering her personal space. “I love you and I only want what’s best for you. For you and Henry and us as a family.” Close enough for his breath to wash over her lips, Killian’s fingers skate up the tendons in her neck, standing at attention but disappearing at his touch.

“I know, darling,” she says just as softly. “And I want to do the same.” Her hand cups his elbow, slightly distracted from thinking by the way he caresses her neck, fingers finally coming to rest at the junction of her shoulder. “That’s why I had to take Henry to Woodlands. You understand that, right?”

Slowly, Killian nods, but doesn’t speak. Inhaling deeply, he says, “After you left, I talked with Liam.” The comment seems very out of character, very quirky for the seriousness of the conversation. “He said that he can find a position for James in the company.”

“That’s kind of him,” Emma offers anyways. “It still doesn’t change the matter that he’s in your workhouse,” she bitterly reminds him.

Groaning in frustration, his grip on her shoulder tightens for a second, as if the force on her body would imprint his meaning on her mind. “Emma, James can get out quite easily, so long as he has an employer to testify to his changed heart and good behavior,” Killian explains. “If my brother hires him, your uncle doesn’t have to leave for the colonies, let alone leave the city.”

Her husband’s plan finally begins to formulate in her brain. “You can get him out?” she asks for confirmation.

Killian nods and shrugs. “It’ll take a little bit of finesse, but I expect that, a month or two more, James will-”

She doesn’t know what James will do, nor does it matter at the moment. Emma cuts him off with a passionate kiss, grabbing Killian’s chin with both hands and yanking him down to her level.

“I don’t care,” she whispers against his lips. “I don’t care. You did this for me and...” Her words get caught up around her tongue. She’s on the verge of crying, an errant tear escaping its duct, all of the emotions from the past weeks and months crashing down at once. “Killian, I’ve missed you so much. Henry’s asked for your stories every night and it’s killed me to deny him.”

Wrapping his wife in a tight embrace, Killian buries his face in the crook of her neck. “I’ve been a mess,” he says with a dark chuckle. “Ruby and Liam have had to call every day just to make sure I go to the workhouse.” He sniffs lightly, pulling back with his own tears on his cheeks. Wiping them away, he offers her a watery smile. “I love you. I am incredibly sorry for not telling you about your uncle in the first place, but I was trying to save you and your family the pain it might have caused.”

Taking a step back, Emma breathes deeply. She’s happy to be at least on speaking terms with her husband, but she’s not ready to forgive all his transgressions that easily. “And yet when I caught you hitting him, all you have to say for yourself is he wasn’t following the rules,” she says accusingly.

Killian chuckles on a sigh, running a hand through his haphazard hair. “You, my darling, have the memory of an elephant.” He sighs again. “I was afraid you would remember that particular line.”

Emma shakes her head. “Killian, think about it from my point of view,” she pleads. “Imagine you hadn’t a clue where Liam was and, all of a sudden, you find him, but I’m kicking him in the ribs.” Reaching across the space between them, she grabs his hand. “Do you understand how that might’ve felt?”

“I would’ve done everything in my power to stop you from doing that.”

“Exactly,” she emphasizes, “because you love him. Because he’s your brother, your family.” Sighing, Emma scratches at the nape of her neck. Her hair is pulling the tender skin there taught and the added stress and confusion of the current situation makes it nearly unbearable. “James is my family,” she says simply. “He was there to heal my wounds and raise me just as much as my parents were. Just as you couldn’t stand by if Liam were being beaten, neither could I.”

Running his fingers through his hair, Killian sighs in turn. “I understand your response,” he says carefully. “But I need you to understand that I did what I did because it was my responsibility as the guardian.”

“Then maybe you should consider a new one.” The comment slips from her mouth before she can really censor it. It’s something that’s crossed her mind before, quite off-handedly, especially after they took Henry in. But they have a nice life built up for them around his occupation.

He’s silent, pondering on the topic, all the while holding tight to her hand. She doesn’t really expect an answer soon - it is and has been a huge part of his life for quite a long time.

When he does speak, Killian inhales deeply to center himself. “I’ll do what I have to keep both our families intact,” he vows solemnly. “Whatever that might mean. If that means I search for a new occupation, then I will.” He begins to pace, releasing her hold to place his hands on his hips. “But you must understand that might mean I stay at the workhouse for a while.”

“If James is off with Liam’s trading, then I’m okay with that.” And she finds that she really does feel fine about that. As long as she knows that Uncle James is better off, she can tell her parents. They can ease their hearts and, at least in a twisted way, her family will be whole again.

(She’ll have to thank Liam later for offering this deal. Let him win at chess or something of the sort.)

“Please, though,” Emma adds,“try and be a little less rough. You’re hurting the other families in there.”

“I shall try,” he appeases her. Turning about to face her, Killian sends her a weak smile. “If it makes my wife’s conscious a little lighter, then I’ll lessen the strain on her.”

Emma tenderly hitting Killian on his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. She laughs. “You’ve caused all of us more pain by being a knucklehead this entire time.”

He joins her in her amusement. “I resent that,” Killian argues in good humor. “The only derogatory name you may call me is scoundrel.”

Emma huffs. “I will call you whatever title you deserve, dear,” she says, tugging here and there to clean him up. “Right now, I believe your most suitable moniker is father.” Miming his favorite action - that suspicious raised eyebrow - Emma pointedly looks him in the eyes.

(Those blue, blue eyes. The ones that inspired the decorations in their bedroom here at home. The blue she’s missed horrendously.)

“There’s a little boy out in the country who misses his papa.”

“Well,” Killian declares, “we must remedy that immediately, now shouldn’t we?”

“Indeed.” They should _really_ get in the carriage and head back to Woodlands: Henry will be dying to see them both. However…

“But we do have the place to ourselves,” she mentions, moving ever so casually toward the staircase, “and as soon as we bring Henry home, he’ll be hanging on your every syllable.”

This time, her husband is the one to initiate the kiss, pulling her into his body by her waist. “Oh, my love, my darling Swan,” he murmurs. “I have missed you more than life itself.”

Giggling, Emma takes his hands in hers and tauntingly purrs, “Show me.”

0000

It’s late afternoon by the time Emma steps into the carriage, her husband behind her, on the way back to Woodlands. They’ve both got wide smiles stretched across their faces as Killian tumbles in and shuts the door. With a jerk, the coach takes off and Emma buries her nose in his shoulder.

“We missed so much time together,” she whispers into his clothes. “An entire month, because I was being silly.”

“I told you, Swan, you were not being silly,” Killian insists. “I was being obtuse.”

“Yes, but I knew that when we married.” He shoves her off his shoulder, then pulls her snickering form back.

“You and I,” he sighs, “we make quite the team.”

Emma exhales as well. “Yes, we do.”

For the rest of the ride, Emma fluctuates between unconsciousness and lucidity, snuggled up to the warmth Killian’s body exudes. She’s deprived herself of this for far too long.

(Never again.)

She’s half-awake by the time the carriage drives up to the front of Woodlands. When her eyes fully open, Emma can tell Henry’s practically bouncing in anticipation. He knows this is their coach, but he doesn’t know who sits inside. The only reason he’s not bounding toward them currently is because Ms. Gibbs is physically holding him back and he’s under the watchful eyes of his grandparents.

“They’re all waiting for us,” Killian mumbles. “That’s never happened before.”

Emma smiles wistfully. “They only do it for special occasions,” she responds, “like when the prodigal son returns.” She can feel his shoulders shake with silent laughter. “And no, that doesn't mean I have a brother you've never met.”

Killian presses his lips to the top of her head before shifting to exit the carriage. “Emma Nolan, you know me so well.”

“Jones.” He looks at her and Emma winks. “I’m a Jones now, too, remember?”

He bends again, this time to engage in a kiss just this side of too passionate. “How could I forget?” he growls.

The expression on Henry’s face when Killian opens the coach’s door is priceless: he’d already been grinning, but at the sight of his father's dark hair, the boy wriggles out of Ms. Gibbs’ grasp and bolts toward him. Killian’s barely handed Emma out of the carriage before Henry wraps himself around his legs.

“Hello there, lad,” Killian chuckles, patting the top of Henry’s head. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Papa, please don’t leave again,” Henry begs into his trousers. “Memma has terrible stories.”

“Pardon me,” Emma says, feining insult, though it’s not exactly feigned. “You told me the other night that my stories were better than your grandfather’s.”

Henry adorably sighs, obviously irked with her misunderstanding. “Yes, but they aren’t as good as Killian’s,” he clarifies.

“That’s only because I’ve spoiled you rotten with my thrilling tales, my boy.” Emma watches as Killian easily picks up their son and hitches him up his hip. It’s so sweet. “I’m sure your mother has done a wonderful job in my stead.”

“I’ve done my best,” she concedes. Leaning into her boys, she whispers good heartedly, “Though you probably shouldn’t tell Gramps about the storytelling ranks.”

Henry shrugs. “He already knows,” he says frankly. “I told him to stick with the books in the library.”

“Did you really?” Killian chuckles heartily, his entire body shaking with laughter and a slight strain from Henry’s weight. Emma joins in, her lips stretching over her teeth into a smile as her husband shifts their son in his arms. Together, the three of them slowly make their way toward the front door of Woodlands.

 

(It’s the first time they’ve done it all together, as a family.)

 

“What have you been teaching the lad?” Killian asks in jest at her side.

Emma shrugs, wrapping her hand around the curve of his elbow. “Don’t ask me. He’s been running after Lance more often than not. Just like at home.”

That causes Henry to sigh forcefully into Killian’s neck. “I miss Booth,” he says. He buries deeper into his father’s chest and tightens his arms around his shoulder. “When are we going home?”

At the foot of the stairs, her parents greet them, David hugging his daughter and Mary Margaret pressing a kiss to her son-in-law’s cheek. “It’s still early,” Mary Margaret says, having overheard Henry’s question. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? I can go downstairs and ask them to serve it a bit earlier than normal.”

The mere suggestion has Henry lighting up. “And then we can go home?” he asks.

“And then we can go home, little gigglemug,” Killian assures him, poking at his sides. Squirming so much, Henry giggles and wriggles himself out of Killian’s hold. “Booth’s missed you too. He was did not like having to all his chores alone.”

“But then what about Lance?” Henry asks when he settles down, still hovering close between Emma and Killian. “Is he gonna miss me like Booth misses me?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Lance, darling,” the baroness guarantees. She squats down to his eye level and pats his cheek lovingly. “He’ll miss you a whole lot, but that will only make it more special when you come back to visit him.” The man in question passes by, on his way inside to return to his office. “Lance,” she calls, “Henry wants to know if you’re going to miss him when we go back home.”

Stopping in his tracks, Emma watches the butler’s expression soften on the top step. “Of course I’ll miss the little master.” His eyes - wisened far more than they ever were when she was a child, or perhaps they’d always been and she’s only noticed them recently - travel up and meet hers. His face mellows even more when he adds, “I’ll miss him just as much as I miss my former mistress.”

Emma blushes. “Lance, you old sap.” Still, she lets go of Killian, walks up the steps next to him. Her hand cups the butler’s cheek as she pecks him on the other, regardless of either’s status or position.

“Now, now Lady Emma,” Lance chides her quietly. “It would do neither of us any good if Mr. Jones were to get the wrong idea about us.”

Laughing, Emma rests her hand on his arm. “I miss you too, Lance,” she admits. “Booth can try his hardest, but no one can truly replace you.”

“I shouldn’t think so.” He nods toward the house, at her parents and Killian making their way into the parlor while Henry hops on the bottom stair. “Go on. Run along to your husband and son,” Lance says. “I’m proud of you, milady. You’ve grown up to be a vivacious young woman.”

“Thank you, Lance.”

With a sentimental smile, Emma nods and catches up to Henry regaling Killian with his first Christmas experience. It hurts Emma to see the cloudy eyes her husband has – they missed their first Christmas as husband and wife and, to add insult to injury, he missed their son’s first Christmas ever. Working as the foreman, he knows that Christmas in the workhouse only means mandatory church services for everyone and perhaps an extra hour with your family if you were lucky enough to have one.

“Next year, lad,” she hears him promise. “Next Christmas, I’ll be here and we’ll have the biggest celebration the world’s ever seen!”

“Even bigger than the Queen’s?” Henry asks, eyes wide and innocence unabashed.

Grinning like a fool, Killian declares, “At the risk of being traitorous, far superior to the Queen’s.”

(Possible treason aside, she’s looking forward to him honoring that promise. Anything to get him to smile like that again.)

0000

It’s oddly warm out for a day in late March. The sun shines bright enough on the grass in which Henry rolls around in, David keeping a wary eye on him after their abandoned spar.

“Have you thought about getting a summer home?” her mother asks casually, watching her husband and grandson intently over tea. Sitting next to her, Emma was enjoying the sun’s rays behind Woodlands, but the abrupt commencement of a conversation means her moment of peace is over.

“We don’t need a summer home, Mother,” Emma sighs. Adjusting herself in her seat, she sits up taller. “Killian and I are perfectly content with our home.”

“But what about Henry?” Mary Margaret points out on to the lawn, where Henry has managed to pull the baron into a wrestling match of sorts, much to the amusement of the Jones brothers nearby. “He loves the woods and the space to run around in, as would any other children.”

Emma glares at her, her low “Mother” a warning.

Hands raised in surrender, the baroness shakes her head and carefully places her teacup on the table. “I know, I must choose my battles,” she states. “I only mention it because the Baron of Freynes recently passed and his heir is selling some parcels of land to pay of their debts.”

“Freynes, you say?” Emma asks. “You mean on the other side of Wolverton?”

Her mother at least has the decency to look sheepish when her daughter deduces her outside influences. “It would be so nice to have all of you closer” is all she says.

“Mama, we’re in London,” she reminds her with a disbelieving chuckle. “We came from there this morning and we’ll go back there this evening. We’re hardly far away.” A cluck of her tongue and Emma remembers. “You were in town just the other day to have tea with Ingrid.”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “Is it a crime to miss my only daughter and her lovely husband and happy little boy?”

Sighing, Emma stands from her seat. “Not at all, Mama,” she mutters, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Please pardon me. I think it’s best if I rescue Papa.”

The baroness laughs. “Yes, please do. I fear it’s been awhile since David’s roughhoused like that.”

Walking away from the table, a chuckle on her lips, Emma makes her way out to where Henry sits atop her father’s back, smushing his face into the ground. “Henry, your grandmother wants to see you. She said something about sweets.” In less than a second, David’s free of the weight of a 7-year-old boy and Henry’s already climbing into Mary Margaret’s lap.

“If only I had thought of that sooner,” her father says, accepting her offered hand and getting up from the ground.

“I don’t know why you didn’t remember,” Emma says. “You used to tell me the same when I was younger.”

“Ah, yes,” he recalls on a puff of air. “I knew I had taught you only the best.” Pulling her close, he presses his lips to the crown of her head. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Emma darling.”

“Thank you, Papa.” And with that, she walks away, toward her husband and Liam, talking in close quarters at the corner of the patio. “And just what trouble are you boys getting yourselves into?”

They both look a tad stunned at her appearance, but Liam recovers first. “I’m afraid our troublesome adventure include your partaking this time,” he tells her.

“Dear big brother, what do you mean?” Emma asks, her voice teasing and light. Killian slips his hand into hers.

“Well,” Liam begins, “your husband and I have been discussing his employment -”

“And how I’ve been thinking a change in employment is overdue,” her husband interrupts.

“I’ve been contemplating expanding the business, settling down in another port,” Liam says, “and I think that Killian would be best suited to head up that endeavor.”

“That’s amazing!” Emma exclaims. She squeezes Killian’s hand as she looks to him. He’s not all that excited from his expression and she can’t understand why.” Where? Liverpool? Manchester?”

Killian wraps an arm around her shoulder and clears his throat. “How does Boston sound?”

Her voice goes high and squeaky. “Boston?” She swallows thickly. “As in across-the-ocean Boston?”

“The very same.”

“So you - you both - ” For the first time in a long time, Emma’s at a lost for words, stumbling along like a foal getting its footing. Her mouth goes dry and it takes her longer than it should to ask the obvious question: “What you mean is you want us to immigrate to America?”

Killian shrugs, far too casually for her liking. “It would be an adventure, wouldn’t it, Swan?”

“Yes, it would.” And it would be, a bigger adventure of a life than she thought marriage would be. “But is it safe? What about Henry? You’ve read the horror stories of those ships,” she reminds her husband. For months now, close to a year if not longer, Henry has been her first priority in every aspect of her life. She subjected herself to all those horrible suitors, volunteered at the workhouse to keep an eye on him, and married Killian to bring him home. This opportunity - moving to the States so Killian can get out of the workhouse and go into the family business - is amazing, but if it would in any way endanger Henry’s well-being, is it really worth it?

“We’re survivors,” Killian says quietly, squeezing her hand comfortingly. “We can start over in Boston, the three of us.”

Unbidden tears begin to well in the corners of her eyes. Her eyes flit from Killian’s face to Liam’s. She feels her lips wobble minutely, and Emma sees her brother-in-law’s eyes go wide in fright. “Why do we need to start over?” she asks, looking to Killian.

“Emma, not here,” he shushes her. Pulling her hand up, he presses his lips to the back of her hand to calm her down. Then, he addresses his brother. “Liam, I think my wife and I will have to discuss this further.”

Liam nods solemnly, softened by the slight smile on his lips. “Of course, little brother.”

“I’m not your little brother, I’m your younger brother.”

Chuckling, Liam claps him on the shoulder. “Killian, you may act older, you have a son, but you’ll always be my silly little brother.” Continuing his laughter, Liam turns to her, evading the tension between she and Killian and changing the subject.

(She’s never had an older brother, but if she had, Liam is the best one she could have hoped for.)

“Emma, have I ever told you about the time your husband nearly got us kicked out of the house because he was running around naked as a babe?”

She laughs, tears falling down her cheeks from in mirth instead. “No, but I’d be delighted to hear about it.”

Killian groans. “Please, Liam, don’t do this again.” At her raised brow, he explains, “Before we married, Ruby would call me in and make me listen every time he told this story.”

“Then we shan’t make you live through that again, shall we?” Emma declares, gesturing toward the open window-doors. “Let’s go inside, Liam. I’m afraid it’s a little too warm out for me right now.” The gentleman that he is, her brother-in-law offers her his arm in escort. She waves him on. “No, go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”

“Of course.” Nodding his temporary farewell, Liam takes his leave, calling to Henry and asking him to save some candies for him.

The mood changes almost instantly, sullening as the grin Liam put on Emma’s face disappears. She points an accusing finger at Killian. To Killian, sternly and quietly. “This conversation is not over,” she warns him sternly and softly, making it all the more menacing to her ears at least. “Be prepared.”

Killian scoffs, his lips turning up in the corner into his signature smirk. “Darling, when you say things like that, it gives off the wrong perception,” he growls seductively.

“No.” She’ll be having exactly none of that.

Later that evening, after they’ve tucked Henry into bed and are settling in themselves, they do have the discussion. He’s naked beneath the blanket flung over his hips when she comes back from checking on Henry once more.

“What are you thinking?” she asks him. When he doesn’t answer, she sways into the room. “Boston?”

He shrugs, playing with the edge of the bedclothes. “Liam thinks it would be the best for all of us,” Killian says. “Should he lapse, James never can’t bother us. The ghosts of Milah and Neal will no longer haunt us.” Shrugging again, he fidgets and stares at her. “I don’t know, Swan. I’d like to believe my older brother has a fair point.”

Emma groans. “But our lives are here. Our family is here.” She knows she’s whining, but it’s true. In the two decades she’s been on this planet, she’s lived within the same city limits. Sure, she’s visited Yorkshire and Manchester and other places around the island, but she always called London home.

“My parents are here, your brother and Ruby, Graham and Elsa and Robin.” Unintentionally, her hands clap together in front of her, making Killian jump on the mattress. “What happens when Graham finally gets married or Ruby and Liam have a child? We won’t be able to be there for them like they’ve been there for us.” Emma sighs dejectedly. “We’re happy here, aren’t we?”

“I have never been happier than I am when I’m with you,” Killian assures her. “And we could come back. Working for the trading company means that ships from home would be coming into port at least monthly, if not more. We can easily ask Liam to send messages and news with each ship. Given enough time to travel, we could come back for any births or weddings or any other milestones that may arise.”

Standing from the bed, he walks toward her in all of his nude glory. She raises an eyebrow at his clothing choice, but otherwise doesn’t comment on it. “Emma, I know it’s a big change,” he says, placing his hands on her shoulders and gripping firmly, “but I fully believe we can conquer it together.”

She sighs, her shoulders deflating beneath his hands. “We should ask Henry.”

“A perfectly reasonable request.” He nods his head a bit, then impresses on her. “But what about you? What’s your decision?”

Her eyes roam up and down his body. Her reasoning is twofold: for one, she’s thinking over his entire proposal. And two, however blasphemous it may be, her husband is a god amongst men. Though his unclothed form is not a strange sight to her eyes, it manages to catch her off-guard every time.

And she knows that’s exactly what he meant to do.

“I’m inclined to agree with the brothers Jones,” Emma mutters, a certain tilt to her words, “but I can’t make any final judgements with you in your current state of dress.”

Killian’s brow cocks and that swarmy smirk of his appears once more. “Don’t you mean undress?”

“You meant to distract me from a serious conversation, Killian,” she huffs grumpily. She crosses her arms across her chest, both in anger and to hide the arousal materializing in the form of tight nipples.

“Yes, but we had the conversation,” Killian reasons, his voice going low, “so it obviously didn’t work out as I had planned.”

Humming, Emma takes his hands and lets them hang in the decreasing space between them. “And what exactly had you planned?”

“Well, I was to be lying in repose over here,” he says, leading her over to the bed, “as I was when you entered the room.”

“Yes, I’m following so far.”

“Then you were to come in as you had and try to get my attention.” Taking his former seat again, Killian pulls at her hand until she’s situated between his knees. “I wouldn’t give it to you at first. I would make you sit in my field of vision to grab my attention.” He slides back against the headboard and pats his lap. “Right here, in fact.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “We both know I grab you attention even when I’m trying to avoid it,” she says. Still, she heeds his wishes, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing close enough to his face to whisper, “You’re impossible.”

She can barely make out his grin when he says, “Yes, but so are you, my love” against her lips.

“And you love me for it.”

“I do.”

0000

The moment they even suggest Boston to Henry, he’s in.

“The further away from the workhouse I can get, the happier I will be,” he says wisely across the breakfast table from Emma. He pauses to shovel a bite of eggs into his mouth and receives a stern scolding from Killian on table manners. Henry wipes his mouth with his napkin. “We’re all going, right?”

“Of course, gigglemug,” she says with a chuckle. “We Joneses have got to stay together.”

“Uncle Liam and Auntie Ruby, too?”

“No, no, my boy,” Killian corrects him. “Just us.”

Henry processes this new information over another bite of his breakfast before asking, “Can Booth come with us?”

Emma glances over at her husband, catching his raised brow. “That,” she says, “is a good question.”

“May I be excused?” Henry asks suddenly. “I wanna go ask Booth if he wants to come with us to Boston.”

Killian nods his assent before she can contemplate her own answer. Looking to him, she says, “I suppose we may need help in America as well.”

“And it would be nice to have a familiar face or two,” he adds with a shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to broach the subject with Booth and Ella later.”

Chuckling, Emma says, “Only if Henry doesn't properly explain it now.”

Emma makes sure she’s present when Killian accepts his brother’s job offering. Liam meets them at the workhouse, having already agreed to walking back to their townhome for dinner. Her brother-in-law’s smile goes wide when he shares the news. All three of them have to stop on the sidewalk so Liam can pull Killian into a hug and clap him on the shoulder.

“I’ll send word to my men in Boston right away,” he promises. “They’ll find you a charming house just outside of the city, somewhere where Henry can run around or you can ride, Emma.” Focusing on her precisely, Liam rests his hand on her arm. “I know you have your reservations, dear sister, as you should, but I have faith in you both.”

“Thank you, Liam.” A couple days have passed since she and Killian had discussed the matter late that night, but the more time that passes the more she grows accustomed to the idea.

 

(She and Ella have already begun to slowly pack things up, the objects and trinkets she knows Killian and Henry won’t miss or notice missing in the meantime. They haven’t set a time table up for this entire endeavor, but suddenness and ambiguity behind Liam’s proposal has her thinking they’ll be in America sooner rather than later.)

 

“It’ll take us a little while to pack everything up, but I think we’ll be settled in Boston by next Christmas,” Emma says confidently, finding it a reasonable amount of time. “Maybe you and Ruby could come visit? Bring a little one?” she suggests teasingly.

Liam’s cheeks flame red and he nods apprehensively, slowly. “Perhaps.”

His reaction has her thinking - ideas flying through the caverns and corridors of her mind because _Liam hides nothing from Killian and, by extension, her_ so what could have him? - and, finally, she realizes why.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth in surprise. Her husband looks at her, his eyebrow raised and a question about to fall from his lips. “That’s why you asked Killian,” Emma says slowly, speaking as the pieces to this puzzle fall into place before her eyes. “You’d take Ruby to Boston in a heartbeat to expand the trade yourself, but you can’t.” Uncovering her mouth, she takes Liam’s hand in both of hers and exudes gentle pressure, a sign meant to comfort like she hopes her small smile does. “Ruby’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

Though he doesn’t make to answer for a while, Liam eventually gives them a hesitant nod. “We’re pretty sure,” he tells the pair, grin appearing on his face. “You’d have to ask her for the details, though.”

Emma scoffs. “I fully intend to after dinner.”

“But not a word about me,” Liam quickly amends, his open palms coming up. “She’s scared half to death as it is and I would like to meet my future son or daughter, if you understand my meaning.”

“Of course, brother.” Emma reaches to hug him first, and then Liam pulls Killian in after their separation. “Congratulations to both of you,” Killian says.

“Thank you.” Pulling back but not completely releasing Killian, Liam says, “I am sorry for throwing you out there, little brother. I’m sure you can understand my point of view. I don’t trust anyone bar myself to run a port correctly, but you know the ins and outs just as well as I do.”

“I should say so,” Killian chuckles, tapping his brother’s cheek with his fingertips. His voice is watery, more unstable than she’s heard since she came home and apologized. There’s a glossiness to his irises that echoes in her own. In the back of her mind, Emma realizes just how much this entire ordeal means and pains the brothers Jones. They’re incredibly close since they’ve all they got left of blood family. But now his big brother - his guiding light and stone foundation - he’s expecting his own family and in order to keep them all alive and happy, Killian’s taking his to a new country. “I will miss you, Liam, but I admire your dedication to your family and the courage you have to relinquish all of your power to your much more handsome and capable younger brother.”

Scrubbing at his forehead with his knuckles, Liam groans. “I’m already regret doing so.”

Telling an already emotionally vulnerable Ruby and an almost detached Elsa of their move later that evening is a little bit harder. These two women have been there for Emma through was has easily been the most trying time of her life, the rocks which she can tether herself to during a storm.

“That sounds so thrilling,” Elsa says, gripping Emma’s hand in her own. “You must write all the time.”

“I plan to, worry not,” she reassures her friends. “And you both, must write me.” Emma turns her gaze intently on her sister-in-law. To her credit, her expression remains impassive, saving for the gradual blush rising on her cheeks and the slight gulp she takes. “Especially you, Ruby. I hear there are going to be quite a few changes on your end of the correspondence.”

Lips beginning to spread in a smile, Ruby murmurs, “He told you, didn’t he?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Emma feigns innocence. Conspiratorily, she adds, “Though I will tell you that Liam is very excited.” For Elsa’s benefit, Emma returns to her normal vocal register. “He told us earlier this evening as Killian and I were coming back from the workhouse that the elder Joneses are expecting a child.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Elsa shouts, adding the power of her own smile to the light of the room.

And for the first time since meeting her, Ruby comes off as bashful instead of brash. “Thank you,” she offers meekly. “We were beginning to think that the only child we’d ever be able to dote on is Henry, but there are apparently bigger plans for us.”

“Do you have an idea when you’re due?” Elsa asks.

“I’m predicting fall.” Tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear coquettishly, she admits, “I haven’t bled since Christmas.”

“Then it wouldn’t be rude to suggest that there is indeed a slight swell beneath your corset?” Emma had noticed earlier this evening, as she greeted her sister-in-law with Lance in the entry hall, that Ruby’s figure wasn’t as defined, meaning her dress wasn’t as tight at the hips as her other costumes had been in the past.

In other words, she was curious, looking for a sign that Liam’s words ring true.

Jaw dropping at Emma’s gall, Ruby stubbornly states, “It would be.” But her words and glare are softened when a hand in her lap drifts up to the curve of her stomach. “But it wouldn’t be incorrectly spotted.”

(Emma’s inner victory march sets off even before Ruby’s words have finished.)

Telling Graham is what Emma supposes is like saying goodbye to a brother heading off to war. She expects she’ll see him the soonest in Boston, what with him setting sail on his own adventures in a week’s time.

“We’re off to Tunisia first,” he tells her at tea, “and then a couple stops down the coast before we set off for the diamond mines of South Africa.”

Nearly choking on a biscuit, Emma sputters out, “Diamond mines?”

“No, don’t worry, it’s not Cassidy’s. I checked.” Even after all this time, she’s always still a little bit surprised when Graham can read her thoughts. “And even if it was, I would piss all over it and steal the biggest one from the arse’s father.”

(She’ll miss this, his and her friendship. But it’s not over, not forever, she keeps reminding herself. It’s just taking a vacation so they can both explore the worlds they’ve immersed themselves in.)

But telling her parents is the worst of them all. Telling her parents makes her the most nervous she’s been since she and Graham snuck away to first meet Killian at the Turk’s Head. She’s knows they’ll be devastated – their only daughter, nay only child, making the treacherous crossing through the Atlantic to a land of unknowns with their son-in-law and grandson. What’s left of their family leaving for a brand new country, no longer a carriage ride away in town.

The most planning goes into this reveal. Emma decides to tell them at Woodlands, where she knows they’re most comfortable.

(It’s also a little selfish: now that she knows her days in London are numbered, she finds herself wanting to spend as much time as she can at her childhood home. She catalogues every time she speaks with Lance or when she rides through the forests as if it’s her last mostly because it might be.)

She’s doing it alone - at least, alone in the room. Her husband and son are off in the stables, mucking about or mucking out the stalls, simply out of her hair as Emma tells her parents that she’s leaving for a much more permanent time.

Mary Margaret, however, notices immediately that something is off. “What’s wrong, dear?” she asks after Emma ushers them on to the couch. Her father’s fingers weave between the baroness’, solidarity in the face of whatever their daughter might throw at them. “Where are Killian and Henry?”

“At least we know now that our daughter has not, in fact, attached herself to the hip of her husband,” David jokes. His attempt brings a smile to Emma’s face and calms the butterflies fluttering in her stomach, at least for a moment.

“They're outside somewhere,” she tells them both. “I wanted to talk to you alone.” Much as she had done before, Emma takes a deep breath to center herself. “Liam offered Killian a position with his trading company. A good position, better than being a workhouse guardian.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, Emma!” her mother exclaims.

(You won’t be saying that when I finish my thought, Emma thinks.)

“Yes, it is. But it means we’ll be moving.”

Ever the practical man, her father asks, “Where?” And that’s the question she’s been dreading answering.

“Boston,” she says, calmly and softly. “The three of us are emigrating to America.”

As expected, Mary Margaret goes silent in shock. Emma sees her grip on her father’s hand increase, turning both their knuckles white. She burrows her face into the baron’s shoulder, hiding the full range of emotions her daughter’s sure she’s experiencing. David stares at her, takes her in as if he’ll never see her again.

“Liam wants the whole ordeal settled and running smoothly by Christmas.”

“You won’t be home for Christmas?” Her mother’s voice is a little muffled by her father’s body and clothing, but no less devastated.

Emma shakes her head. “But you can come and visit us for Christmas,” she offers. “Liam’s already sent some men over to look for a house for us. It’s only about a week’s sailing and we’d love to have you stay for as long as you like.”

“You how hard traveling is for us these days,” David nervously chuckles out. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

“I know,” Emma concedes. They really aren’t, but they aren’t that old either. She’s only twenty, her parents barely older than Liam. But they’ve settled into their life at Woodlands, with occasional trips into town. Their years of exploring aren’t too far behind them, but they never were as discontented with their deals in life as she was.

Kneeling at her parents’ knees, Emma lays her hands over their still-joined ones. “Mama, Papa, I love you both so very much and I will forever be grateful to have you as my parents. But now I’ve got to go on my own adventure with my family. I need to learn about life like you did.”

“And how might that be?” her mother asks in indignation.

Emma shrugs. “Trial and error?”

And like that, the tension is broken. The three of them share a laugh, Mary Margaret finally coming out from her hideout. “You have to promise me a couple things,” she says sternly.

“Whatever will ease your heart.”

“You must write,” the baroness says. “Not everyday, but often enough.”

Emma nods and shakes her parents’ grip to emphasize her answer. “Easily done.”

Her mother’s finger raises and points at her. “If there is any new development in your life - good or bad - I want to know about it,” she nearly growls.

She feels a smile grow across her face. There’s one specific development her mother speaks of. Though she doesn’t say the words aloud, Emma knows exactly what warning her mother sends: “Mama, if I get pregnant, I want you to be there for the whole time.”

Mary Margaret returns the grin. “Good,” she says, tilting her head to rest it on her husband’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to miss that for the world.”

Her father, however, isn’t completely happy with his wife’s promises. “I only have one stipulation.”

“Of course, Papa.”

His voice is low and seriously when he says, “The moment you become unhappy, I want you and Henry to come home.”

Emma sighs. “Papa, we’ll have a new home in Boston,” she reminds him. It’s his paternal right, she supposes, to be this overbearing on his only child’s life. Though, given the rocky past of her marriage he’s seen her experience, maybe his words aren’t unfounded.

“Yes, I know,” he responds, his voice still hard. But then his face softens and gives way to a gentle smile Emma hasn’t seen in a long time. “But you can always come back here, no matter how long it’s been or why you need to stay here.”

There are tears threatening to fall as she nods furiously in understanding. She stands, pulling her parents up with her. “I love you both,” Emma mumbles.

Her mother opens her arms wide, and Emma gratefully falls into the embrace. “We love you, too, Emma,” Mary Margaret assures her.

(Not that she’s ever doubted how much her parents love her to death.)

Once her mother lets her free, her father takes her place. Emma rests her head on his shoulder, the motion making her feel like a child again. He whispers in her ear, “You’ll always be my darling little girl, Emma. No matter where in the world you are.”

Grinning into his shoulder, Emma holds him a bit closer, cherishing the embrace she knows will always wait for her back here at home. “I know, Papa,” she murmurs. “I know.”

0000

They set sail on an early fall afternoon, the ship pushing off the dock to calls and waves of the loved ones passengers leave behind. It’s a bit too early to be considered prime sailing weather, but the roughest of the ocean storms will have passed by now and the sun still shines over the water often enough that Emma isn’t too worried about Henry succumbing to rickets or similar illnesses.

Besides, Killian tells her in one of her many discussions of their journey, Liam would rather have word that all is well in with the new port by the Christmastime. Originally, he’d wanted them off and confirmation of settlement before his and Ruby’s daughter was born, but in true dramatic Jones fashion, little Clara Florence scared the living daylights out of all those who loved her by arriving earlier than predicted.

(Emma was there, holding her sister-in-law’s hand as she screamed in her bedroom, when her niece entered the world.

A miracle indeed.)

Now a few weeks old, little Clara’s hair was already showing her father's tell-tale curls in her mother’s dark color. Standing at the balustrade of the steam liner the _Jewel of the Realm_ , waving goodbye to the only home she’s ever known, Emma can spot her niece cradled safely in her father’s arms. Even in the grey skies of London, the smallest hint of sunshine glints off of the infant's hair in the most precious way.

“They’re going to spoil her rotten,” Killian mutters next to her. Henry is standing between them, sticking his arm in the space between the railing balusters to wave at the people below.

Emma scoffs. “Because you haven’t already done so.” She glares at him in the most loving way. “Your niece was not even an hour old before you became the doting uncle of legend.”

“I’m merely glad we don’t have to manage little Clara during her troublesome youth.” At his wife’s confused glance, Killian shrugs. “I love them both dearly, but any child that’s half Ruby and half my brother is bound to get into some tight spots.”

“I agree completely.” The docks grow smaller by the second, as do the people standing on it. Emma sighs and takes her husband’s hand. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

Pulling their son back from the edge of the ship, Killian shrugs again. “We’ve got a some time ahead of us to figure it out.”

The winds favor them on most days, a sign from God if nothing else that they’ve made the right decision. The journey supposedly takes anywhere from two weeks to three. On land, with her in-laws encouraging her and her parents supportively smiling at her, that hadn’t seemed like an awful amount of time. But with an almost eight-year-old boy running about the steamer at every hour of the day, Killian finding new nooks and features aboard to explore, and she herself seasick more often than not, sailing is not at all pleasant.

Killian is the first one to spot land after a fortnight of nothing but open ocean before them. Emma honestly doesn’t believe him when he tells her. She’s curled up with Henry in the bed they share in their room when her husband bursts into the room breathlessly.

“We’re nearly there, Swan.” he says. “There’s land out there. Come see!”

Uncurling herself from around her son’s sleeping form, Emma haphazardly sways into Killian’s arms. He leads her up to the deck and to the stern of the ship, lonely, cold, and dark in the night time air.

“You have to get right up to the railing,” he tells her, pushing her forward until her hips hit the metal. His hand snakes around her waist when the ship’s movement cause her to lurch. “I’ll hold you, don’t worry.”

“I know,” she murmurs softly, resting her hand atop his. The warmth of Killian’s lips anchor her even further as he kisses the back of her neck, and Emma smiles. Squinting off into the distance, she leans as far as she dares, her eyes straining for a glimpse of the elusive chunk of land her husband’s spotted. “I hate to say this, darling, but I do believe you’re losing your sight.” She cranes her neck so she can catch his eyes. “There’s nothing out there.”

“No, no, I swear to you!” Gently, he cups her chin and turns it so Emma’s looking back out at the expanse of water before them. She feels the pressure of the point of his chin on her shoulder and, when he next speaks, his voice is right in her ear. “You can barely see it, but it’s there.” The arm not holding tight to her comes up, his pointed finger drawing what looks like the outline of some parcel of land. “Don’t you see?”

Emma shakes her head. “Not at all.”

Killian sighs dejectedly, bringing his arm back to her waist. “Wait until morning,” he says, “then you’ll see.”

A few hours later, after a stint of twisted sleep, both Henry and Killian drag her to the deck, one on each side of her.

“Mama, do you see it?” Henry asks her, running up to the railing and pressing his face between the rails.

And, lo and behold, off in the distance, a little mound appears out of the ocean. It is quite small, no larger than her thumb at the moment, but Emma has no doubt that it’ll grow into a sprawling America. She sighs at her first sight of their new home.

“I told you,” Killian whispers in her ear, his arms coming around her waist and holding her tightly to him. “I told you last night we’d made it.”

“We haven’t made it yet, dear.”

“But we will.” Killian presses his lips to her temple, just as he did last night. “We’re nearly to Boston.”

Emma sighs. “There’s so much to do once we make port.”

“And it’ll all get done in due time,” her husband assures her. “Breathe, Swan. You’re only human.”

It does take some time - getting off the _Jewel of the Realm_ in and of itself is a battle - but once settled into their new home, Emma finds Boston to her liking. It’s more open than London. Where her childhood home has streets no wider than three people, the states are all about space. Sure, Boston itself is alive and thriving, but it takes longer to get into town then it ever took from Woodlands to London.

She loves it though. She loves not having the high expectations that London life wanted of her, or the close streets, or the inherent snobbery that she’s come to associate with certain people in England. Killian was right: it’s an adventure. One she’s happy he’s on with her.

Their house here has no name, but it’s akin to Woodlands in looks and their townhome in feel. There’s enough grass around the property for Henry to run, maybe even ride around on if they can find a horse that will grow with their son in due time. Instead of a forest, their grounds are next to a small lake, and therefore wildlife are more likely to traipse across the lawn in order to hydrate.

(The first time Killian and Henry spotted a deer, the three of them were sitting down to dinner. Facing the window, Henry hadn’t even asked to be excused before he was running out the door and down the stairs, quietly stalking the animal like its predator. Killian followed suit, shouting after their son only to be silenced at the sight before him. Growing up where she did, mildly out in the country, Emma had seen a deer or two in her life, but her boys, apparently, had not.

“It looks so peaceful,” Killian whispered as she joined him outside, afraid that his voice would carry the distance between him and the deer.

“They’re nice enough to look at until they’ve eaten all the cabbages in the garden,” she grumbled in return.)

It’s beautiful, watching the mid-fall they arrived in gradually fade into winter. Boston is much colder than any of them expected or are used to, but the many nights spent sitting in the parlor or in their bedroom by the fire - well, Emma’s far more pleased with the outcome of moving than she ever thought she would be.

Christmas 1868 is much, _much_ different than the year before. First of all, they’re _together._ Bedtime stories consist of every variation of Father Christmas she and Killian can conjure. Eight year old Henry runs around like a chicken with its head cut off. Killian is much the same, though his station as harbormaster and head of the Boston port of the family trading company, he has to confine his childlike enthusiasm to home.

It only makes Emma fall even more head over heels in love with him.

There’s actually snow on the ground this year, an occurrence Emma isn’t sure has happened in her life. There’s a tree decorated to the brim in the grand hall, with an angel carefully placed on the top, the result of a collaborated effort between Booth, Killian, and Henry. With such a large house, they’ve got more help than they know what to do with, and each one of them has the promise of time off for the future.

The night of Christmas Eve, Emma makes sure Henry’s all tucked away and that the gifts from one Santa Claus are placed just so downstairs. In the morning, the three of them will wake and join the servants and their families downstairs to exchange gifts. Then they’ll all go home to spend time with their families and have their own feasts and the Joneses – the American Joneses – will find their way down to the kitchen and do their best with their own feast making.

“The lad asleep?” Her eyes are wide and unseeing until Killian’s soft voice startles her, even though she is the one walking in on him. The quiet thump of his book shutting comforts her, slowly bringing her back to the conscious world as he sets it on the nightstand.

Sighing, she drops her dressing gown carelessly on the floor and crawls onto the bed. “At long last,” Emma mutters, happily snuggling up to his side. Her arm wraps around his waist as his falls to her back. “He just keep chattering about his present to Booth and whether Santa would know we’d moved house, if he would still come here instead of London.”

Killian’s suspiciously silent, the only sound in the room the soft crackling of the fire in the place and the steady beating of his heart against her ear. She feels and then hears his gulp, the muscles of his throat working over a lump there. “Was he like this last Christmas?” he asks quietly, his fingers drawing absent pictures on her back.

It hurts him: Emma can see it plain as day when she cranes her neck to look at him. He missed this all last year, the first time they were to celebrate as a family. Though he does his best to hide the pain, Killian obviously feels guilty - humming carols beneath his breath in Henry’s presence when his eyes scream emotions other than the joy he sings about.

“Yes, though not to this degree,” she answers gently, responding with her own art between the hairs of his bare stomach. “He was excited to wake up and have a holiday like he’s heard and read about, but you weren’t there to celebrate with us.”

“I see,” he says. His grip on her tightens briefly, pulling the top of her head closer to kiss the crown of her head. He whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that now.” Careful of him, Emma rises on her elbows. She leans in, returning his kiss with one on the lips. She means to keep it short, truly, but he increases the pressure on her lips, urging more out of her with his hand on her back and lips on hers. Their embrace continues longer than she means, growing all the more passionate until Emma finds herself on her back, Killian hovering over her, his hand up and under her nightdress at her waist and steadily rising. Then she asks breathlessly, “What time is it?”

Just as out of breath, Killian gasps “What?” between kisses to her chin and cheek.

She pushes him off of her and sits up, indifferent to the look of dejection on her husband’s face. Killian removes his hand from her side bit by bit, sliding it down until comes to rest at the curve of her hip. Emma’s too captivated squinting at the face of the clock on the mantle across the room. It reads eight after midnight.

“It’s Christmas,” she whispers giddily. Like a little girl, Emma hops in her seat on the bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Expectantly, she looks at him. “Would you like your present?”

“Pardon?” he asks, straightening up from his position of relaxation on his elbows. His expression is confused, yet hopeful.

“I mean, there are more presents for you beneath the tree, of course, but this…” Emma sighs. It’s silly, really, what she’s doing, but she can’t help herself. She’s excited beyond belief and the small amount of time she’s thought on this has been so difficult to do alone. “This one is special. Meant just for your knowledge only.”

His eyebrow raised, Killian agrees. “I suppose.” He holds one hand out.

Smiling bright, Emma takes his proffered hand and pulls it over until it’s laying on her stomach. “You’re going to be a papa again,” she murmurs.

Her announcement is met with silence and a hanged jaw. “What?” Killian whispers.

“You know how I’ve had headaches and queasiness lately?” He nods. For the past couple of weeks, especially in the early hours, Emma had been struck by throbbing in her head so severe that she was rendered all but useless in her daily errands. More often than not, the migraines led to nausea, and both her poor boys worried incessantly for her far away from the vomiting. “I asked Ella to brew me some tea for it and we talked about it for a long while, what could be making me sick,” she explains. Shrugging, she concludes, “The only explanation we could come to was I’m with child.”

“With child?”

He’s not reacting as she expected, making her stomach gurgle with nerves now instead of the sickening feeling she’s come to expect. “Yes? I mean, I can find a physician in town and confirm it, but it feels…” Her words trail off into a sigh. He’s not understanding it, wouldn’t understand it as Ella or even her mother would have. As much as it feels like it sometimes, Killian is not a part of Emma, therefore not in tune with the way her body feels now. Like it’s changing and growing into something - _somebody_ \- else.

“There’s something, something that’s changed within me, and I thought it was because I was so happy here with you and Henry and moving to Boston, but as soon as Ella mentioned it, I knew she was right.”

(Now is the time. Not too long ago, she remembers thinking how she couldn’t be a mother, had no _desire_ to have children. But now, with Killian....it’s right. She regrets that she wasn’t around Henry sooner, able to experience her son as a soft newborn or a babbling toddler.

She has that chance now.)

Face grown clouded and unreadable, Killian remains quiet. He asks no more questions: he merely sits there on their bed, his hand gently placed over the place where their child would flourish into life. “Killian?” she asks. “Please say something. You’re worrying me.”

He looks at his hand still on her stomach wide-eyed. And then he pounces on her, pushing her back on the mattress and kissing every bit of skin he came across and then some amidst her giggles.

“God above, Emma, I didn’t think you could ever make me happier,” Killian mutters into her skin, “but here you are, come to prove me wrong again.” With a sound kiss to her lips, he pulls back, smile wide and eyes bright.

(Emma hopes to God, all gods, every god their child has his eyes. They’re the first thing she fell in love with, the thing that greets her every morning and sends her off to bed every night.)

“Can we tell Henry?” he asks. “When can we tell Henry?”

She hasn’t considered that yet - telling their son he’s to be a brother. She’d been too focused on informing her husband. “I suppose we can tell him tomorrow,” she finally realizes. “When it’s just the three of us. I don’t want it getting out to the staff quite yet.”

“Of course,” he mutters. His hand drifts down to her stomach again, his thumb brushing over her navel. “The little one can be a family secret for now.”

(She likes the sound of that. A _family_ secret about their _growing_ family.)

This Christmas morning is unlike any other she’s lived. She and Killian have barely fallen asleep before it feels like Henry runs in and jumps on the bed. He’s shouting in her husband’s ear - “Papa, we need to see if Father Christmas came! PAPA, GET UP, IT’S CHRISTMAS!” - and Emma laughs so hard tears come to her eyes.

This is the holiday she wanted last year: with her husband at her side to try and control their son with boundless energy. Sitting around a tree and exchanging presents late into the afternoon. A poorly made meal of their own creation that’s more about spending time together than filling their bellies. It may be late, but it happened, and Emma is so entirely grateful it did.

When they’re alone that night, up in her and Killian’s bedroom, Henry is the one who hands her the gift from Killian. “Here you go, Mama,” he tells her happily, sliding a nicely wrapped package into her lap. It’s longish and thin, obviously a box of some sort, maybe containing jewelry. “The note is signed with Papa’s name.”

“So it is,” she concurs at her inspection. Unlike the presents she’d given out that morning, which only had a polite _To such-and-such, The merriest of Christmases to you, Emma_ on them, Killian has outdone himself with each gift. Every one’s had a personalized message, and hers is no exception. Though he alleges he could go on for “pages and pages just describing the multitude of neverending ways in which I am most blessed to have you as my wife and partner in life,” Killian keeps it short.

_Merry Christmas, my love. You’ve given me so much joy. I only hope that this brings you a fraction of what you have given me. Love, Killian._

“Open it, Mama!”

Emma glances over at her husband, who sends her an encouraging smile and nod.

“Go ahead, darling.”

Ripping the wrapping reveals that it is a jewelry box. Emma chuckles and looks at Killian. “You needn’t get me anymore jewelry, Killian,” she chides him jokingly. “I’m more than happy to spend Christmas with you and Henry. That’s the perfect gift.”

But Killian shakes his head vehemently, still grinning wide. “Open the box.”

Confused but intrigued, Emma does, slowly taking the top off. Inside are what look to be tickets to something.

“It’s not the Russian ballet,” Killian says before she can fully comprehend what’s in front of her, “but I’ve heard that they’re just as talented. And,” he emphasizes, “they’ll be in New York performing, so we’ll have the chance to go down and explore the city.”

Taking them out of the box, all Emma can do is stare at the pieces in the box. It’s been so long since they’ve had this conversation, and it was random enough that she thought he’d have forgotten by now.

Henry’s crawling up her legs, straining to read what’s on the tickets. “Mama, what is it?” he asks.

She looks down at her son - the little boy who caught her eye in one of the worst places she’s ever been, who’s grown up so much in the short time she’s known him - and then stares at Killian.

(She can feel the sappiness coming from her expression. She’s never really felt this emotional over something so small.)

(It must be the babe, the child - their child - just beginning to grow within her. Ruby was like this, said she got teary-eyed and angry at the drop of a hat.)

“They’re tickets to _Swan Lake_ ,” she explains, eyes never leaving Killian’s blue ones. Emma pulls Henry into her embrace and presses a kiss to his head just to keep herself from succumbing entirely to her emotions. “It’s a ballet I love.”

Ever the one to downplay his own thoughtfulness, Killian shrugs. “It seemed fitting,” he says. “Celebrating our first Christmas with the show that brought us together in the first place.”

Their son in her lap and their second child safely and secretly tucked inside her, Emma tilts her head and gives him a smile. It was how they met, the first time they knew the other existed, back in her warehouse sanctuary where she was nursing her heart after heartbreak.

“Thank you, darling,” she tells him, voice full of sincerity and emotion. “I love you so much.”

Killian shrugs again. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he says, coming closer to them. Against her forehead, he whispers, “I’ll finally get to see what inspired my love to become a swan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end of Big Bang for me. Thanks again to my beta hookedoncaptswan and my artist somethingalltogether for their hard work. This story would not be what it is without either of you.  
> Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think of it!


End file.
